


Support and Defend

by everytimeyougo



Category: The Good Fight (TV), The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: (do expect lots of mchart being cranky with each other because they just really want to bang), (look you guys i'm canadian so don't expect political accuracy here), F/M, Gun Violence, implied past sexual assult, the bodyguard AU you were promised
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 03:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16590191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everytimeyougo/pseuds/everytimeyougo
Summary: “Do you carry a gun, Mr. McVeigh?” AU in which Diane is a US Senator receiving threats and Kurt is the security expert hired to protect her.





	1. Chapter 1

“Here you go, Senator Lockhart.” Diane looks up from the stack of mail she’s making her way through, stifling a yawn as her assistant places a steaming cup of coffee on the desk in front of her. “Do you need anything else? Something to eat?”

“No, thank you, Marissa,” she says, pulling the steaming mug of nirvana closer and inhaling its ambrosial scent. “This is perfect.”

Marissa screws up her face. “No, no, I’ll get you a muffin,” she decides. “You look like you need a muffin. Blueberry.”

Diane shrugs, partly because there’s no point in arguing, and partly because a blueberry muffin does actually sound good. She’s learned not to question the young woman’s knack for knowing what she needs before she needs it. If only it was a Gold family trait, she thinks perversely.

After flipping to the next letter, she picks up her mug to take a careful first taste of the heavenly elixir.

“Incoming!” Marissa calls back over her shoulder as she passes through the doorway, startling her mid-sip. Her hand jerks, splashing hot coffee over the rim of the cup. Cursing, she sets it down, pulling a tissue from the box on her desk and wiping the hot coffee from her mouth and chin.

Her chief of staff, and Marissa’s father, enters just as she drops the tissue in the trash, his ever-present smartphone in one hand and a plain white sheet of computer paper in the other, his mouth set in a rigid line.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, coffee instantly forgotten.

Wordlessly, Eli Gold sits opposite her and shoves the sheet of paper across her desk.

Eyes narrowing, she retrieves her glasses from the neckline of her blouse and slides them on, quickly reading the page. Consisting of several long, run-on sentences, it manages to be both chilling and hilariously ungrammatical all at once. After an instinctual flash of panic, with her stomach jumping up into her throat, she willfully focuses on the latter.

Forcing a laugh, she drops the letter to the desk. “‘You’ll pay for this, bitch,” she quotes, distorting her voice into her best imitation of a movie villain. “Well, that’s original. If people are going to threaten me, I wish they would at least put a little more oomph into it.”

Eli stares.“Diane, you have to take this seriously!” Agitated, he grabs the letter and stands, pacing the length of the room and waving around the sheet of eight and half by eleven around as if it was on fire. “You’ve been stirring up all the crazies with your comments on gun control. This is the third letter this week!”

Diane exhales heavily, taking off her glasses and dropping them on top of the pile of mail in front of her. Massaging the bridge of her nose with with two red tipped fingers, she speaks patiently, tamping down on her frustration and using her most soothing voice.“I’m hardly alone in that, Eli. Every Democratic senator on the floor is pushing for stronger gun control laws. And every one of them gets threats,” Sometimes she thinks she and Eli have gotten their dynamic completely backwards. Isn’t it the politician who’s supposed to be the one in need of handling, and the chief of staff the adult in the room? “You’re overreacting.”

“No,” he snaps vehemently, spinning to face her, pointing the letter at her. “You’re underreacting. Goddamn it, Diane, you need to hire a security consultant. I’ve got some contacts, I’ll...”

“No! Stop.” Patience gone, she stands, slamming her hands to her desk, then leaning over on her arms. “Jesus Christ. Who works for whom here, anyway?” Straightening up, she stalks over to where he stands and snatches the sheet of paper from his hand, then balls it up and tosses it in the direction of the recycling bin in the corner. “There. Problem solved. Now, can we please move on to all the legitimate issues we have to deal with?”

Eli stares at her, steam pouring from his ears, his mouth opening and closing like a hungry goldfish. Internally she counts him down: _five, four, three, two…_

“Fine,” he snaps, surprising her. “I have some calls to make.” Turning on his heel, he strides from the room.

“Good talk,” she says to the empty room, before turning back to her desk.

A security consultant! She grimaces. Good lord, the last thing she needs is some bozo with a gun following her around while she tries to convince people they need fewer guns. There goes every last ounce of credibility she has on the issue. There’s no doubt in her mind the Opposition would have a field day with that information, splashing it across social media and making her look like the worst kind of hypocrite. It’s a ludicrous idea.

Shaking the thought from her head, she returns to her mail, presorted by her staff to include the types of things she likes to review personally. Most people email these days, so the actual, paper letters that make it to her tend to come from either senior citizens or school children.

 _Or whack jobs_ , she hears Eli’s voice in her head, just as she flips to the next letter to find plain laser printed words on basic white computer paper, it’s very ordinariness somehow rendering it more sinister.

_Do you think you’re safe? You’re not._

The question comes at the end of the letter, set apart from the rest. Her heart pounds in her chest as her eyes dart around the room, as though the author of the letter could be lurking somewhere in her office, behind a potted plant, or under the couch.

She sets it flat on the desk and closes her eyes, breathing steadily until the panic retreats. Obviously whoever was doing the sorting today accidentally put this in her pile instead of Eli’s. It’s for the best, probably, because if he knew she’d received two such letters in one day he might literally handcuff her to her chair and post armed guards in every corner of her office.

Picking up the letter again, she’s ready to scrunch it up and send it to join its brother in the recycling bin, when she thinks better of it, stopping suddenly with her hands at the ready. Eli is wrong; this is nothing to worry about, but the lawyer in her objects to destroying evidence. Instead of throwing it away, she retrieves an empty manilla folder from her desk drawer and places the letter it inside. Then, after a moment of contemplation, she retrieves the first letter from the bin, flattens it out and adds it to the file. Pulling out the least used drawer drawer in her desk, she drops it to the bottom, covers it with a file of old meeting agendas, and slams it closed.

* * *

The letters are the furthest thing from her mind by the time she emerges from her Judicial Committee hearing on gun control later that day.

“That went well, I think,” she remarks to her colleague, Liz Lawrence, the junior senator from New York as they pass through the massive wooden doors of room 226 of the Dirksen Senate Office Building.

Liz scrunches up her nose, making a noncommittal noise, then waves apologetically at a journalist trying to get their attention. “No time to talk, sorry!” she calls out.

“What, you don’t think so?” Diane asks as they continue striding quickly in the direction of the corridor that connects to the Hart Building where both their offices are located.

“I hope so, but I can’t shake the feeling all of this is in vain,” the other woman says, shaking her head. “It always seems to be, doesn’t it? People make the right noises, but in the end no one wants to cut off the flow of cash from the gun lobby, and nothing changes.”

Diane lets out a harsh breath. “I have to believe it’s different this time. All those people…” she trails off, wondering even as she says the words, how many others have said them before her.

Liz looks over sympathetically. “We’ll still try Diane. We’ll always try.”

Her phone vibrates in her hand and she glances at the screen to see Eli’s name. She hasn’t seen or spoken to him since their argument that morning and while she’s tempted to keep up that trend, there’s too great a chance of this being something important.  “I’m sorry Liz, I have to take this,” she tells the other woman, holding up the phone. “Can we have lunch later this week?”

“Of course,” Liz says. “I’ll have Deidre call your office to set something up.” She squeezes her arm briefly, then continues on her way.

Diane ducks into an alcove, so she’s out of the way of foot traffic, then lifts the phone to her ear as she watches Liz disappear around a corner. “Hello Eli,” she says unenthusiastically.

“Don’t sound so unhappy to hear from me,” her chief of staff says in her ear. “You’ll hurt my feelings.”

She snorts in spite of herself. “You have feelings?” She leans against the cool marble wall, facing away from the corridor.

“Occasionally,” he replies and she can hear the grin in his voice. “But I’m working with a therapist to fix that.” He pauses and she can almost hear the effort he’s putting into weighing his words. Her brows knit together. That’s not like him. “Listen, about this morning…”

“Eli, ” she tries to interrupt.

He doesn’t let her. “No, Diane, just listen. I understand the position you’re in with the gun control thing, okay. I do, but I have a really bad feeling about these letters. Please just hear me out. Have breakfast with me tomorrow and we can talk like grown ups. No yelling, I promise.”

She and Eli have been together for for more than two decades now, beginning when she was a young upstart in the Cook County State’s Attorney’s office and he was working in the mayor’s communications department. He’s a royal pain in the ass sometimes, but she trusts him more than she has trusted anyone else in her entire life. He’s never steered her wrong before, and if he feels this strongly about something, she’d be a fool not to at least hear him out. And then she’ll talk him out of it.

Straightening up, she turns and looks around. The crowd from the hearing is starting to thin out.  “Eli, I’m on my way back to the office now. Can’t we talk when I get there?”

“I’m not at the office. I have a appointment this afternoon.”

She raises her eyebrows, trying to think with whom he could be meeting, then realizing he probably means a personal appointment, the dentist or some such.

“Okay, fine,” she says, nodding at a waving acquaintance who is passing by her alcove. “That cafe on E Street, you know the one; it’s near my yoga studio. I’ll meet you at 7:30.”

He agrees, and she ends the call, glancing at time as she does so. Damn it, she’s about to be late for a conference call with the Illinois chapter of the Time’s Up legal defense team. Setting off down the corridor at a brisk pace, she considers how she’ll present her thoughts, and the situation with the threatening letters falls once again off the bottom of her mental list.

* * *

Diane’s DC apartment is small, just one bedroom with a combined kitchen and living area, in a high rise with a view of Capitol Hill. It’s all she needs for the limited amount of time she spends in it. People always ask why she choose to live in such close proximity to her workplace - doesn’t she want a rest from all that? She laughs in reply. There is no rest in her line of work and that is exactly how she likes it. Rather than finding the visual symbol of her job exhausting, she finds it inspiring. The view reminds her of her purpose on nights she’s tired and stressed and wondering whether it’s all worth it. It’s a gift.

After a moment’s reflections, she pulls the blinds closed, shutting out the lights of the city. Crossing the room to her bed, she drops her grey silk robe across the chest at the end of the bed and pulls back the bedding. After settling between the sheets, she picks up her phone from her bedside table to double check her alarm. It’s just past eleven now, so she’ll get a good night’s sleep, then be up again at 5:30 and out the door for her morning class.

Eli knows very well she does yoga every morning. In suggesting breakfast, he was no doubt trying to catch her at the most relaxed point of her day, hoping to persuade her to see things his way. The man can be immutable when he gets an idea in his head. But this time, it’s not happening. Unstable people threaten politicians all the time. Only rarely do they follow through. Almost never. Almost...

She pauses, her hand extended towards the bedside lamp as a sudden chill sweeps up her spine when Eli’s words come rushing back to her: _you’ve been stirring up all the crazies._

She shakes her head and flicks the light off, laying back against her pillow and closing her eyes. It’s a while before she sleeps.

* * *

Across the street a man watches as the windows of her apartment go dark.


	2. Chapter 2

Diane breathes deeply, enjoying the crisp fall air as she walks briskly from her yoga studio to the restaurant where she’s meeting Eli for breakfast. Her class had been challenging, leaving her muscles feeling both loose and satisfying achy, as if she had been engaging in activities more erotic than Vinyasa flow.  A glimpse at her reflection in a plate glass window shows windswept hair and cheeks flushed from the cool wind. Pushing open the door, she enters the small cafe, trading fresh air for the sumptuous scent of strong coffee and baking bread.

The restaurant is on no one’s list of DC hotspots and that’s exactly what Diane likes about it. The decor is bland, the furnishings uninspired, but she can always get a table when she wants one, and the food is actually quite good.

She glances around for Eli, but he doesn’t seem to have arrived yet. There are a few tables overflowing with tourists, readily identified as such by their casual dress; a few half-awake, besuited men and women slowly making their way to work on the Hill; and one lone man dressed in jeans and a brown tweed sport coat, sitting alone with his back to the wall, who resembles neither tourist nor staffer.

Giving in to curiosity, Diane strides by him to take a seat at a table by the window, and if she finds herself bizarrely hopeful he’ll look up as she passes, she’s doomed to disappointment. Intent on the newspaper open in front of him, the strangely compelling man doesn’t even seem aware of her presence.

Pulling her glasses from her bag, she opens a menu, then proceeds to study him surreptitiously over the top of her frames. About her age, with thick silver hair and a full beard, he’s not traditionally handsome, and certainly not her usual type, but there’s something about him she can’t quite put her finger on. Though she would like to. Unconsciously she licks her lips.

Slowly, without her even realizing at first what’s happening, his head turns in her direction until they’re making eye contact and suddenly she understands he’s been aware of her all along. Quickly she looks down at the menu. _What is wrong with you?_ she admonishes herself.

“Good morning.”

Jumping, she looks up to find Eli standing beside the table. He looks uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black overcoat.

“Good morning to you too,” she says. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

He looks taken aback. “What? No. Look, don’t get mad, but there’s someone I want you to meet.” Turning, he gestures to the bearded man by whom she had just been caught ogling. He folds up his newspaper and stands.

“Senator Diane Lockhart, this is Kurt McVeigh, owner of McVeigh Security.”

McVeigh walks - no, _ambles_ ; she’s never before seen a more apt demonstration of that word - over to her table, setting down his paper and extending his hand. “Ma’am.”

Realizing her mouth is hanging open, she closes it abruptly and shoots Eli a death glare before taking McVeigh’s hand and shaking it firmly. His grip is strong, his fingers rough against hers and if he feels anything of the jolt of awareness she does, he shows no sign of it.

She forces a polite, but impersonal politician's smile. “Mr. McVeigh, I’m sorry, I’m caught a bit unawares. I didn’t realize anyone was joining us.”

“So I gathered,” he says, his tone one of mild amusement. Obviously he had known who she was all along, that they were meant to be breakfasting together, but chose not to enlighten her.

“Please, sit,” Eli instructs, unbuttoning his coat and taking the seat beside her.

McVeigh shrugs and takes the seat opposite, leaning back and resting his arm on the empty chair beside him, fingers tapping relentlessly against the wooden chair back.

Diane grits her teeth and waits for Eli to explain, but before she can, the server arrives to take their orders, leaving her to fume quietly as Eli orders a full breakfast, pointedly oblivious to the waves of anger she knows are coming off her. McVeigh looks from one of them to the other, eyes narrowed, then gruffly orders plain black coffee.

She does the same, then straightens her shoulders and folds her hands in her lap as the server walks away. McVeigh looks over at her, his lips twitching into a small half smirk for just a fraction of a second, before he drops his head.

He’s _laughing_ at her. Of all the…

“So!” Eli says, with contrived conviviality. “Diane. I’ve told Mr. McVeigh here about the threats you’ve been receiving, and he agrees you need some kind of protection detail.

“Of course he does, Eli. He wants us to pay him.” She looks across the table to find the smirk has widened. “Isn’t that correct, Mr. McVeigh.”

“My rates are very reasonable, ma’am.”

She almost smiles back at that, but catches herself in time. “I’m sure. But I don’t need protection, so I’m very sorry, but Mr. Gold has wasted your time.”

“Diane. A word, please?” Eli has dropped the pleasant act and assumed his usual prickly tone. Without waiting for her to answer, he stands and stalks across the floor to the small hall where the restrooms are located.

“Excuse us for just a moment,” she says to McVeigh, who just shrugs, apparently indifferent to the petty drama unfolding around him.

“You promised you would hear me out,” Eli abruptly reminds her as she reaches him.

“Yes,” she snaps. “You. I didn’t anticipate you were going to ambush me with a security expert.” Though, in retrospect, she probably should have.

“So consider him my proxy.” She can tell he’s making a monumental effort to keep the conversation civil and fit for public consumption. He’s only half succeeding, but the effort reminds her to do the same. “By hearing him out, you’re hearing me out.”

Down by her sides, her hands ball into fists. “Fine.”

Returning to the table, they find the waitress has delivered Eli’s plate of food and their cups of coffee. McVeigh has added a splash of cream to his and wrapped his palms around it, the white cup dwarfed by his large hands.

“Do you carry a gun, Mr. McVeigh?” she asks abruptly as she takes her seat.

He doesn’t look surprised by the question, inclining his head slightly as he answers. “I do. Do you?”

She stares. He cannot be serious. “Of course not. I’m a member of the Democratic party, and I’m heavily involved in a push to legislate stricter gun control laws. Surely you can understand that I can’t have a man with a gun following me around.”

McVeigh snorts and picks up his coffee. “Not going to be able to take away folks’ rights under the Second Amendment if you’re dead.” He raises his cup to her before taking a drink.

Ah. She’s beginning to understand. He’s one of _those_ people: a Second Amendment worshipping lunatic who sees any attempt by the government to impose common sense firearm regulations as nascent totalitarianism. “I’m not trying to take away anyone’s rights,” she explains carefully, as if speaking to someone who doesn’t fully understand the language. “I’m simply trying to prevent any more of our children from being murdered for the crime of getting an education.”

Her voice reflexively rises as she speaks, and he holds up his hands in mock surrender when she finishes. “Look ma’am, no one wants children to be murdered, all right? And Mr. Gold here asked me to come up with a security plan for you that will keep both your image, and your ah… person… intact.  Now, do you want to hear it or not? Because I’m good either way.”

“She wants to hear it,” Eli interjects. “Don’t you, Diane?”

She’s not sure she does, but she knows she’ll never hear the end of it from Eli if she doesn’t at least hear the man out. It will come up again and again every time a new letter comes in, and she has no doubt there will be more. Even if the current writer gets bored, there will always be someone waiting in the wings to take over.

“Fine,” she snaps, “What do you have for me?” Glancing quickly at her watch, she folds her arms on the table and waits.

McVeigh retrieves his battered, brown leather briefcase from the floor and extracts three identical documents encased in cheap plastic report covers. He hands one to each of them, and keeps the third for himself. “If you’ll look at the summary on the first page, you’ll see that the plan entails keeping any firearms out of sight at all times. Your close quarters guard will be unarmed, but will have a armed partner a short distance away. No one will know he or she is with you unless there’s an incident.” He continues from there, his laidback, nearly indolent persona falling away, replaced with businesslike efficiency as he explains his plans with precise detail and responds to Eli’s occasional interjected question without breaking the steady rhythm of his presentation.

He’s very good, Diane has to admit. In his presence, his voice, he manages to be both commanding and reassuring at once. In a different situation, in a different time, she can imagine… Blinking, she forces herself back to the present.

“Thank you, Mr. McVeigh,” she says when he’s finished. “I’ll take this under advisement. Mr. Gold will be in touch if we require anything further.” It’s a clear dismissal, haughty and uncalled for, but McVeigh doesn’t seem offended. He just stands, that maddening half-smirk firmly back in place.

“No problem.” He nods at Eli, then tucks his briefcase under his arm. “I’ll talk to you.” With that, he turns and ambles away, as though whether he’s secured her business or not is of little concern to him.

“Well?” Eli asks. “What do you think?”

“Not going to happen, Eli. Forget it.”

* * *

Many long, exhausting hours later, Diane exits the elegant black sedan of the car service, stepping onto the sidewalk directly in front of the main entrance to her building. “Thanks Freddy,” she says to the driver who has walked around to hold the door for her. “Have a nice evening.”

“You too, Senator Lockhart,” he says, touching the brim of his hat before closing the car door behind her. She crosses the sidewalk and pulls open the front door to her building, entering the large vestibule before fishing for her keys to the security door. It’s only when she goes to fit her key into the lock that she notices the door is ajar, the protruding deadbolt resting against the outside of the doorframe.

A sudden flutter of unease begins in her abdomen and extends up into her chest. She’s absolutely positive the door had been properly closed when she left that morning, but of course that was nearly fifteen hours ago now. Who would have left it stuck open like this?

After entering the main lobby, she closes the door properly, then glances around the vast empty space, eyeing the bank of elevators with some amount of trepidation.

_Oh for heaven’s sake, Diane_ , she scolds herself silently. _Someone wasn’t paying attention, and messed up the lock. Just go home._ Eli and his overprotectiveness have gotten into her head, that’s all. Stalking over to the elevator, she stabs her thumb against the up button, then turns, leaning against the wall, breathing carefully and evenly, trying to get her heart rate under control.

The elevator bings, and she jumps, swearing colourfully, turning around just as the door slides open, revealing her downstairs neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Lyman.

“Senator Lockhart.” Mrs. Lyman is a formidable looking woman in her late seventies, with a ramrod straight spine and steel grey hair shellacked into an incongruous sixties flip. Her voice is tight with annoyance. “Please in the future try to keep it down. There is no need to be so disruptive in the middle of the day. Mr. Lyman and I are not young anymore and all that banging is not good for our constitution.”

Diane can only stare as the pair walk past her, the woman in the lead and her husband following, shrugging at Diane as he passes.

“But I haven’t been home,” she starts to explain a beat too late, her voice trailing off as she understands the implication of the woman’s words. She pushes into the elevator just as the doors start to close.

_It’s nothing_ , she tells herself. Those two are half deaf. They could have been hearing something from the apartments below or beside them. Or from the television, god knows they play it loudly enough.

Getting off the elevator, she proceeds cautiously down the hall to her door. So far, nothing looks amiss. Her door is closed; the hallway clear. Pulling her keys from her pocket, she holds them at the ready, wishing for one insane moment that she had a weapon.

When she reaches the entrance to her apartment, she leans in, resting her ear against the dark wooden door, but can hear nothing but her own heartbeat, pounding against her chest at what feels like twice its usual strength.

Somewhere in the building, a dog barks.

Pulling away, she slots the key into the lock and turns the knob, her heart stopping when she encounters no resistance. Leaving the key in the lock, she steps back, her hand at her chest, until she’s leaning against the opposite wall. _No, no, no. This isn’t happening_.

Hands shaking, she rummages blindly through her bag, trying to find her phone to dial 911, or Eli, or the Secret Service - someone, anyone, who could possibly open that apartment door instead of her. She can’t lay her hands on it, she can’t, she…

She stops. Breathes.

No. She cannot, will not, cower her in the hallway like a coward and wait for some man to come and save her. There is still a chance this is all nothing. And even if it’s something, Mrs. Lyman said the noise she heard was in the afternoon. It’s well past afternoon now. Surely even if there was someone in her apartment; they’re gone now. And if they aren’t, they would have noticed her trying the door and come out after her by now.

Glancing quickly around the deserted hallway, she hopes again for some kind of weapon, but there’s nothing in sight but decorative door wreaths and a fire extinguisher trapped in an alarmed glass box.

Stepping out of her shoes, she bends down and picks one up. They aren’t her longest, spikiest heels, but the sensible three inches will have to do. Leaving the other shoe on the ground, she approaches her apartment again, this time turning the knob and pushing open the door.


	3. Chapter 3

“Thank you, Detective,” Eli says to the weary looking plainclothes police officer still lingering in the middle of her ransacked apartment. “Senator Lockhart’s office will be in touch tomorrow with a list of anything missing. We appreciate your discretion on this matter.”

Eli had been her first call after opening the door to her apartment and discovering her fears had been realized and her home had in fact been violated. The police were to have been her second, but her chief of staff convinced her to leave it to him. She doesn’t want to know about his elaborately arranged system of backchannels and favours traded but if he can keep this situation from blowing up on social media, she’s happy to hand him the reins.

The forensics team has come and gone, leaving behind swirls of fine black fingerprint powder across every surface the intruder may have touched. There are plenty of options; from the wreckage strewn about, he doesn’t appear to have left much undisturbed.

On the pristine antique white walls, violent threats are scrawled in lurid red letters.

Diane stares out the window to avoid looking at the desecration straight on. Reflected in the glass and combined with the glittering lights of the city, it could almost be abstract art. Malice in expressionist form. A dense mass of fear grows in the pit of her stomach and she thinks she may be sick.

“No problem,” the detective says, with a coolly professional smile but something of her tone indicates she’s unimpressed by Eli’s influence raining down upon her from on high. “We don’t know a thing.” She turns to Diane. “Ma’am if you could contact your building management about providing us access to the security cameras? We could get a subpoena, but it would be faster with your permission.”

“Of course,” Eli answers for her. Normally that would annoy her to no end, but in this case she’s grateful. “She’ll call them first thing in the morning.”

“Do you have somewhere else to stay tonight, Senator Lockhart?” The detective continues to address her as though Eli hadn’t spoken.

The question gets her attention and she turns away from the window, eyes carefully focused on the people and not their surroundings. “I… I don’t know. I could sleep at the office, I suppose.”

“She’ll come home with me,” Eli inserts, addressing first the detective and then her directly. “I’ve got a spare room. It’s yours for as long as you want.”

She very nearly cries  in relief at not having to be alone, but manages to say the polite words, confident they’ll be rejected. “No, Eli, I couldn’t impose.”

“You can and you will.” He sounds almost irritated with her, but she understands him well enough to know it’s only a reaction to fear and anger at the situation.

The detective has no such insight. “Is that all right, ma’am?” It takes her a moment to understand why the detective is still looking for an answer. She’s asking if this man a safe person to leave her with, and she won’t leave until Diane confirms it. Such is the world they live in.

“It’s fine, yes, thank you Detective,” she says, stepping away from the window to stand next to Eli, tacitly vouching for him. “I’m fine. Just in shock, I suppose. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

“Do you want to pack up a few things?” Eli asks after the detective leaves.

She shakes her head, ignoring the wave of nausea that comes at the thought of strange hostile hands on her belongings. “I don’t want anything from this apartment until it’s been cleaned. I’ve got some clothes at the office.”

From the corner of her eye she can see Eli nod. “I’ll arrange for someone to come by tomorrow and clean after you check to see if anything is missing.”

She turns, looking at the defaced walls straight on for the first time. “You know this wasn’t about theft,” she says. “He’s escalating, isn’t he? The letter writer.” The malevolent words stare back at her, growing and stretching until the fill her entire field of vision.

“Yes.”

She exhales heavily. “Call McVeigh in the morning. Ask him if he still wants the job.”

* * *

“Bill me personally,” Diane says, glancing up over the rims of her glasses at the man across from her.  “This is not Senate business and I’d prefer to keep it out of my office budget.” Dropping her eyes, she quickly signs the multi-page contract with McVeigh Security, then slides it back across the desk.

After a long sleepless night tossing and turning in Eli’s guest bedroom, her eyes feel like sandpaper and her neck is stiff, uncomfortably limiting her range of motion. Every time she had closed her eyes, visions of her violated home had loomed up large in her mind, the bright red letters scrawled on the wall dripping as if they were written in blood.

Eli had been on the phone conducting damage control before they even left his house, alternatively barking orders at subordinates and oozing self-deprecating charm at those in positions to help keep this quiet. One of his first calls had been to McVeigh Security.

Kurt McVeigh looks much the same as he had yesterday morning in the cafe, that is to say, as if he would be more at home on a horse ranch than on Capitol Hill. She wonders idly how he came to be working in the nation’s capital, then waves the thought aside. It doesn’t matter. She won’t be getting to know him that well.

He grunts in acknowledgement of her instructions, and folds up the signed contract, shoving it in his briefcase. “So where do you want me?”

Diane stares, her exhausted mind stuttering over the question. “Pardon?”

“This is last minute,” he says, speaking slowly. “All my other employees are on jobs already. So I’m your man today. Where do you want me?”

He’s not a bad looking man, in his rugged, Marlboro Man way. In other circumstances she might permit herself a slow smile, allow a bit of harmless flirtation to blossom from his unintentional double entendre. In the current situation, it doesn’t cross her mind. He’s an impediment, a very personal, unwanted, reminder that her world is not the safe place she wishes it to be.

He’s still looking at her, waiting for her answer. She looks down, staring at the desk where the contract had been moments before.

She had been planning to go to her apartment next, to figure out whether anything is missing and to direct the cleaning crew Eli hired. The idea of seeing the place again, of being forcibly reminded of strange hands all over her belongings churns her stomach. She’s not sure if having McVeigh there will make it better or worse. Better, because at least she’ll feel physically more secure, but worse because allowing a stranger, particularly this stranger, to see her at such a vulnerable time isn’t anything she wants.

“We’re going to my apartment,” she tells him finally. “No guns,” she adds, eyes narrowed.

“That contract you just signed specifies one armed man on you at all times,” he points out.

“But not within twenty feet of me, and it also says my...what was it? Yes, my _close quarters_ guard will be unarmed. Which are you to be, Mr. McVeigh? She leans back in her seat and crosses her arms across her chest.

“Today? Both.”

Their eyes lock together in a silent battle of wills. She’s the client; by all rights her wishes should be respected, but she’s beginning to suspect Kurt McVeigh doesn’t operate like that. The hard look in his eyes tells her that once he’s given his word to protect someone, he’ll protect them from anything, even their own choices if he believes them to be dangerous.

He doesn’t look away, but he does speak first. “Look, Ms. Lockhart. This is what I do; don’t worry, I know how to be discreet.” He opens the side of his sport jacket, revealing a leather shoulder holster, the butt end of a gun protruding. “Didn’t know that was there, did you? Neither will anyone else.” He pauses, shrugs. “But if you’re one hundred percent sure whoever was in your apartment wasn’t one of your neighbours, or won’t sneak in with this cleaning crew, or…”

“Stop!” She hates him for playing on her fear. Hates that he has a point. Hates that what she’s about to agree to goes against everything she stands for. But her home is no longer safe. Maybe nowhere is.

* * *

They drive to her apartment in McVeigh’s vehicle, an older model brown sedan, its interior meticulously clean, but beginning to show its age. The fabric trim is threadbare in spots, the textured plastic of the dash bleached by the sun. She directs him into her rarely used spot in the underground parking garage and they ride the elevator silently to her floor.

She pulls her keys from her purse as they walk down the hall to her door. Without looking at her, he holds out his hand, palm turned upward.

She comes to a stop in the middle of the hallway. “You’re not serious?” she asks.

“I am,” he says simply, hand still extended.

They stare at each other for a few seconds longer, until she huffs and rolls her eyes, depositing the keys in his hand with perhaps a little more force than necessary. This whole thing is just so ridiculous. How is this her life now?

“Wait here,” he commands, proceeding down the hall without checking to ensure she’s following orders.

Well. Isn’t this going to be fun, she thinks to herself, hands on her hips as she watches him unlock her door and disappear into her apartment. Some part of her hopes she’s been overreacting, that the damage isn’t actually as bad as she remembers. Fear and fatigue may have built it up in her mind. It was probably just some teenage delinquent, looking for cash, or drugs, and nothing to do with her personally. Maybe she’ll talk to Eli after she gets back to the office about breaking this damned security contact.

The instant McVeigh is out of sight, she approaches the open doorway herself, cautiously at first, then with more confidence when no alarming noises come from within. Everything looks fine from the outside looking in: a couple of pairs of her shoes lie abandoned in the entryway; a framed print hangs on the wall undisturbed. Venturing further, she turns the corner into the main living space.

And stops. Her belongings litter the floor of the room: books torn to shreds; glass ornaments smashed; plants upended, their black soil ground into upholstery and spread across pale wooden floors. The words scrawled across the wall are, if anything, larger and more violent than in her memory.

Sinking down onto a chair, she cradles her head in her hands. She’s still there when McVeigh reappears from checking the back rooms.

“I told you to stay put,” he says, but she isn’t listening. In her mind’s eye, a faceless man in black is in her space, picking up her things, examining them, throwing them to the floor, heedless of what they might mean to her. Searching for something? Or just trying to cause her pain, make her afraid. She tries to breathe evenly, in and out, in and out.

If that was his goal, he’s succeeded.

“Senator Lockhart?” She looks up to find McVeigh looking at her quizzically. “You okay?”

Damn it. “Yes. Fine.” She blinks forcibly a couple of times, coughs, then stands. “Just thinking about where I should start.”

He looks doubtful, but only nods. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Her eyes widen. “You? You don’t have to do anything. I mean, aside from keeping anyone from shooting me. There's nothing else for you to do.”

He shrugs, taking a couple of steps in her direction. “I’m here, Might as well be useful.”

Useful? If he wants to be useful he can find her a time machine and transport her back to a time where her home was still her sanctuary; where she could feel safe within these wall; where she wasn’t forced to allow one stranger with a gun to protect her from another.

“You wouldn’t be,” she snaps, knowing he’s done nothing to deserve her irritation, but unable, in the moment, to rein it in. “I have to make a list of anything that’s missing. You can’t do that, so…”

"So you want me to stay out of the way.”

“Yes,” she says shortly.

He shrugs again. “Okay.” Stooping down, he picks up a book, one of many which have been shoved from the bookshelf to the floor. “I’ll just read this, ah… Hillary Clinton bio.” His tone as he finishes the sentence leaves no doubt as to his opinion of the former Secretary of State.

Well, at least he’ll be as miserable as she is.


	4. Chapter 4

At her desk in her office, Diane sips her coffee and taps open the web browser on her laptop. She only has about an hour before she’s scheduled to speak at a gun control rally, and she’s always found it wise to be up to the minute on the news. Who knows what questions might be thrown her way, and she hates nothing more than having outdated information. In this day and age it’s so easy to fall behind.

She scans the news services for the stories of the day: wildfires in California, scandal in the Tennessee governor’s mansion, trade negotiations with Canada and Mexico. The principal deputy solicitor general has resigned and a replacement has already been named.

She stops reading there, her jaw falling open as she reaches the new appointee’s name. The font on her screen seems to grow as her stomach clenches in revulsion and the air in the room suddenly evaporates. Of all the lawyers in the country, why _him_? She closes her eyes and…

“So I just got off the phone with...Diane?”

Her eyes fly open again and she finds Eli standing in her doorway, looking over at her with concern. “I have a headache,” she explains, realizing the words are true only as they leave her mouth. “It’s fine. Off the phone with whom?”

“With Detective Solis,” he continues after an skeptical pause. Stepping into the room, he closes the door behind him. “The fingerprint analysis came back on your apartment. They’re mostly yours, and just a handful of unidentified partial prints. The police think they could be leftover from the store where you purchased the items. Apparently fingerprints can hang around for a long time.” He shrugs. “Who knew?”

“And the letters?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“Just yours, mine, and the staffer who opened the mail. Nothing that matches anything from your apartment.”

“The culprit wore gloves,” she states gloomily.

“Yes. Which we knew would likely be the case.  Bad guys watch TV too.”

It’s true; she knows from her days as a prosecutor that learning anything from fingerprints is always a long shot. “And did she say anything about the security tapes?” Diane had spoken to her building’s management the day after the break-in and had been assured the tapes would be provided to the police without delay.

Eli looks annoyed. “Yes, in fact. Strangely enough all the cameras in your building seem to have malfunctioned the afternoon of the break-in. There was nothing on the tapes but static from about two pm onward.”

“Which coincides with when Mrs. Lyman heard noise coming from my apartment,” she finishes for him, irritably. Her elderly neighbour had not been at all impressed with being dragged into a police investigation, as she had informed Diane at some length.

“Right. They were still malfunctioning when the building superintendent went to retrieve the tapes for the police. Detective Solis says she’ll be contacting neighbouring buildings to see if they can catch anything from the outside, and there are still a few of your neighbours they haven’t talked to, who may have seen something.”

Diane nods, but any hopes she my have been harbouring regarding a quick arrest and subsequent return to normalcy are fading fast. It’s been over a week already.

As if sensing her disappointment, Eli hastens to add, “She said to tell you she hasn’t given up hope yet, and neither should you. They’ll get this guy, Diane.”

She forces a smile, then glances at her watch, finding it’s time for her to leave for the rally.

Standing, she crosses the room to retrieve her coat and bag. “Let’s hope. In the meantime, my shadow and I have an gun control rally to attend.” To her immense frustration, despite the near constant friction between them, McVeigh seems to have made escorting her personally his top priority. It leaves her no opportunity to cajole any of his subordinates into giving her some space, which, she grudgingly has to admit, is probably why he stays on her himself.

Eli smirks. “He’ll enjoy that.”

He won’t, of course, but some small part of her hopes he’ll at least listen to what she and the other speakers have to say. Despite the many differences in their political ideals, he's an intelligent man. Maybe she can reach him.

There’s an abrupt knock on the door seconds before it swings open, admitting McVeigh himself, his mouth set in a hard line. He lifts his right hand, pointing his index finger at Diane. “So, this anti-gun rally?” he says, pronouncing the words as if they taste like milk that’s gone off. “You’re not going.”

She blinks. “Excuse me?” she asks, certain she hasn’t understood him correctly.

“It’s in the middle of a public park,” he says in an overly patient tone she learned means he’s attempting to conceal his annoyance. “There could be thousands of people approaching you from all sides. There’s no way to secure the perimeter.”

“I’ve been on the list of speakers for a week,” Diane says, standing up from behind her desk, placing her hands on her hips and not bothering to conceal _her_ annoyance. “The most recent mass shooting occurred in my state. If you think there’s any way in hell I’m not going, you’re out of your gun-loving mind.”

“Look lady,” he says, extending his hand once again, his palm flattened and facing downward. His voice rises as he speaks. “I can’t protect you if you don’t protect yourself. Huge, uncontrolled crowds like the one that will be there today are security nightmares. Anyone wants to take you out? You may as well give them a written invitation.”

“Okay, okay, now wait just a minute,” Eli says, standing and getting between them, his hands held up, one toward each of them. He turns to McVeigh first. “She can’t back out of this. That’s a non-starter, so forget it. It would look like she was blowing off the families of all the people killed in Illinois last month, and if it ever did get out why she didn’t go, she would look like a coward. Her numbers would take a huge a hit. People have lost elections for less.”

“And then there’s the fact that I actually care about this, Eli,” she points out.

Her turns to her. “Yeah, yeah, and that. But,” he adds when she starts to speak again, “He’s got a point too. You need to get in and out of that park as fast as possible and you need to do exactly what he says while you’re there. No sticking around to talk to the media. Okay?” He turns to McVeigh. “Okay?”

“There’s not much I can do, beside plant some guys in the crowd to keep watch for any obvious threats,” he says, his jaw tense under his beard. “Anyone with a long range rifle could take her out right there on the stage and there wouldn’t be a goddamned thing anyone could do about it.”

“But isn’t that always true?” she argues. “Even if I’m walking down the street?”

“Yes!” he says emphatically. “Which is why I’m always telling you to take a damned car!”

* * *

The sun is shining, but it’s chilly on the unsheltered expanse of the park, even for fall. A harsh wind tosses fallen leaves into the air with abandon and whips flags violently around on their poles, steel pulleys rattling like they might break loose at any moment. A huge crowd has turned out, more even than the organizers were expecting. People hold their handmade signs tightly against their chests, protecting them from the wind as they chant and cheer each speaker who makes their way to the top of the cement staircase that doubles as a stage. Cellphones and professional television cameras alike record every word spoken. It’s chaotic, energizing, and uplifting, seeing her fellow citizens coming together to fight for change. It makes her proud to be American.

She has to yell her speech to be heard over the wind, as McVeigh and his people stand scattered throughout the crowd. At one point she thinks she sees him watching her, the wind rifling through his hair as he listens, something resembling grudging admiration softening his expression. Nonplussed, she moves her gaze elsewhere.

The next time her eyes fall on him, he’s ignoring her, facing away from the stage and speaking to his team through his earpiece. A tremor of fear licks at her spine, making her stumble over her words. Has he seen something? But no, he lowers his hand and continues to scan the crowd, but he doesn’t appear alarmed.

She exhales and smiles apologetically at the crowd, resuming her speech where she left off, calling for people of all political leanings to put their differences aside, because only then will they be able to come together and grow as a country. She truly believes that in their hearts all Americans want their streets, their gathering places, their schools to be safe. If they work outward from this commonality, they can heal rifts and make this country a better place for all of their children to inherit.

When she comes down from the stage, she allows McVeigh to lead her away, one large hand at the small of her back, and tuck her into the backseat of a waiting car.

“You see,” she says pointedly when he’s gotten in beside her, and the young female driver has pulled away from the curb. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Back to the Hart Building, Miranda,” he tells the driver, ignoring her.

“Did you like my speech?” she asks, not entirely sure why she’s needling him.

He doesn’t look at her as he answers, still intent on the crowd outside of the tinted glass window. “Didn’t hear it. Too busy watching the crowd.”

“Ah. Too bad. I thought maybe I might be able to convince you to see sense.” He _had_ been watching her, listening to her, at one point. She knows she didn’t imagine it.

At last he turns his head and looks at her steadily. “I expect, ma’am, that we might agree on more than you think.” His face is the same impassive mask he wears any time he’s not actively annoyed with her, but his eyes are alive with warmth, intelligence, and an intensity she doesn’t know how to define.

“I… I, ah..” She stammers uselessly, suddenly at a loss for words. Frustrated with herself, she turns away, looking straight ahead through the windshield to the street beyond. “I rather doubt that,” she finally manages, a couple of beats too late.

In the rearview mirror, the driver smirks.

* * *

The man walks away from the park, hands stuffed in the pockets of his overcoat, his head lowered against the wind. So she’s got a bodyguard now. He saw the silver haired man hustling her away from the crowd as soon as she finished speaking. He laughs abruptly, mirthlessly, attracting a look from a herd of teenagers walking in the same direction.

He hopes she’s enjoying her false sense of security. It doesn’t matter.

No one can save her.


	5. Chapter 5

Things are quiet in the weeks following the break-in, almost as if the home invasion had been the intruder’s endgame all along, though for the life of her Diane can’t think of what it accomplished. Nothing of value had been taken: a few mementoes, photographs, some items of clothing. The police called them trophies, and thought it unlikely someone with that level of obsession with her would stop there, but the more time passes, the more hopeful she becomes.

On the other hand, the situation with her other stalker, as she’s come to think of him, is growing increasingly unbearable.

Kurt McVeigh has to be the most pigheaded, egotistical, _infuriating_ man she’s ever met. He’s  completely unwilling to compromise his standards when it comes to protecting her, even when those standards are unreasonable to her, the client. It leaves her feeling both confined and infantilized, and thus she’s in a near constant state of irritation, bristling at his restrictions like a dog straining at its leash.

“I can’t take it anymore,” she says crossing her office and falling into her chair. “He’s driving me crazy. He has to go. The letters have stopped; there’s simply no need for him to follow me around any longer.” She leans back in her chair and stretches her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankles.

Eli takes the seat opposite her, wincing apologetically before he speaks. “You know, he might be more inclined to compromise with you on some things if you didn’t fight him on every damned recommendation he makes.”

“I have to be able to do my job, Eli,” she exclaims, slapping her hands to the arms of her chair and pulling herself up straighter. “And I can’t do it properly with him stuck to my side, and knowing someone else is lurking behind us somewhere with a gun trained on me!”

Eli scoffs, waving his hand. “They don’t have a gun trained on you. They are keeping watch over the situation in case anyone _else_ trains a gun on you.”

“Except there is no situation, not anymore.” She falls back again and crosses her arms across her chest, glaring at him, almost daring him to disagree. Which he does, immediately .

“You can’t know that. The police have made no arrests. The culprit could just be waiting for things to cool off.” He purses his lips, fingers tapping against the black leather arm of the chair. “Look, McVeigh’s initial contract was for six weeks. At least let’s get what we paid for, and then, if no more letters show up and you don’t want to renew, we won’t renew. Okay?”

“Another week and half.”

He inclines his head. “Another week and a half.”

She exhales heavily. “I’m the boss here, you know; I could send him on his way without your approval.”

“Yes. But you won’t.”

He’s right of course, and she hates that he knows that.

“Fine, but I’m not taking him to the children’s hospital ball tonight.”

Eli’s eyes almost bug out of his head. “Are you insane? That’s exactly the kind of event where you need protection the most. The crowds, the media, the goddamned catering staff. Who the hell knows what kind of security the venue has in place. Diane, no. I’m putting my foot down. You will take him tonight.”

“You’re...you’re putting your foot down?” She laughs, incredulous. Who does he think he’s speaking to?

And as she thinks it, he seems to realise he’s in danger of pushing her too far and raises his hands in surrender. “Forget I said that. Please. Please, forget I said that.” He leans forward in his chair with a conciliatory smile. “Look, I would consider it a personal favour if you would let McVeigh act as your escort tonight. I’m not asking you to marry the man. You don’t even have to talk to him. Just...let him stand near you. Introduce him to anyone who asks as someone you know from Chicago if that makes you feel better. He is actually from Illinois, you know.”

In fact, she had not known that, but she’s not going to admit it to Eli. She sighs. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

He grins, knowing he’s already won. She sticks her tongue out at him and picks up her phone to call McVeigh. Would the man even own a tuxedo?

Marissa pokes her head in. “Are you done fighting now? I have a surprise!”

“We weren’t fighting,” Diane says, at the same time Eli says, “Yes.”

“Good.” Marissa comes in holding up a black garment bag. “Your dress has arrived!”

Eyes narrowing, Diane sets her phone down again. The dress she has been planning to wear, a floor length navy blue sheath, is hanging in her closet at home. “Marissa, what did you do?”

Eli stands. “I don’t think I’m needed for this,” he says, smirking. Giving the two women a courtly little bow, he quickly vacates her office.

“Don’t be mad,” Marissa says, eyes shining with excitement. “I saw it at that little boutique you like on 14th Street, and I knew it was perfect for you. They had all your information on file, so “you” bought it, but you can return it if you hate it.”

She doesn’t bother asking how Marissa knows what stores she likes. Much like her father, Marissa has her ways about which Diane prefers to remain in the dark.

“All right then, let’s see it,” she says, curious in spite of herself.

Her assistant squeaks with excitement and hauls the coat rack from behind the door into the centre of the room, then hangs the garment bag so it’s facing Diane. With a flourish, she pulls down the zipper, revealing a sparkling black cocktail dress.

“Well? What do you think?”

Diane stands and walks around her desk as Marissa removes the dress fully from the garment bag. It is beautiful, with full length sleeves and a demure neckline, but.. “Isn’t it a bit short?” she asks doubtfully. On a woman of average height, the dress might fall to just above the knee. On her it would be mid-thigh at best.

“Are you kidding?” Marissa demands. “I’ve seen your legs. It’s a crime not to show them off.”

Diane shrugs. It’s not a matter of whether she can pull it off. Decades of yoga practice has given her long, lean muscles and she knows she looks good. Whether it’s appropriate or not is another question.

But it’s just a charity event, she reminds herself. Not anything close to official government business. And after the month she’s had, doesn’t she deserve to have a little fun for one night?

Not that McVeigh is likely to let her out of his sight long enough for her to meet anyone to have fun _with_.

“Go on, try it on,” Marissa urges.

“Fine,” she says, snatching the hanger from her assistant’s hand. They’ll see about that.

* * *

 

The Atrium at the Ronald Reagan Building is stunning with its grand staircase, dramatic exposed columns and soaring skylight, highlighted tonight with elegant purple and blue lighting. Hundreds of people have paid large sums of money to come out for a night of eating, drinking and dancing; seeing and being seen, all in support of the city’s Hospital for Sick Children.

Diane retrieves a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and takes a moment to look around, taking in the Washington elite in all their ostentatious splendour. Behind her, McVeigh mutters to himself, his hand at his ear. She supposes that means he has a partner somewhere nearby, perhaps more than one, but she’s on her third drink of the evening and she finds she doesn’t actually care anymore.

After glancing behind her to ensure he’s still busy coordinating or whatever, she starts walking quickly in the direction of a table of people she knows on the other side of the room.

She doesn’t get six feet before a large, rough hand closes around her wrist and pulls her to a stop.

“Hey. Where do you think you’re going?”

She whirls around, then freezes when she finds herself standing much closer to him than expected. Her breath catches in her throat as her heart rate speeds up. Unconsciously her lips part. With his thick silvery hair and warm brown eyes, he really is an attractive man, especially now in his black formal suit, and with two glasses and a half glasses of champagne coursing through her veins, she could almost just lean in and…

“Well?” he prompts. Is it her imagination, or has his voice dropped an octave?

Realizing he’s still holding onto her wrist, she yanks her arm away, then rubs the spot where her skin still tingles from his touch. “Over there, to sit with some friends. Is there some problem with that?”

“Nope,” he says, his eyes still fixed on hers. “No problem. Lead the way.”

She tilts her chin. “So you can enjoy the view from behind?” she asks without thinking.

His eyes darken appreciably at her suggestion, but he doesn’t answer, just continues to hold her gaze steadily, his face like granite.

Turning, she walks away, putting a little extra swing in her hips until she reaches a table on the other side of the room where she slides into a chair next to Liz Lawrence. McVeigh takes up residence a few feet away. She almost thinks there’s faint upturn to his lips beneath his moustache, but she’s probably imagining it.

“Who’s your shadow?” Liz asks her, leaning in conspiratorially. “He’s kind of hot,” she adds, peering over at where he stands with his back against the wall.

“You think?” Diane asks innocently, as if the idea had never occurred to her. “He’s a pain in the ass, but Eli insisted.”

“What? Why?”

She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just some letters. He’s being overprotective as usual.”

“Diane,” Liz says seriously. “What kind of letters?”

“Threats. You know.” She makes a menacing face and shakes her fist in the air. “You can’t take my guns. That sort of thing. Nothing out of the ordinary.” She doesn’t mention the break-in, having almost managed to convince herself it was somehow unrelated. It’s a tenuous peace she’s found, and she’s loathe to give anyone a chance to contradict it.

“They’ve stopped anyway,” she adds. “So I don’t think we’ll be renewing Marshal Dillon’s contract when it’s up next week.

“Pity,” Liz says, eyeing McVeigh, her tongue darting out to lick her lips.

Diane laughs. “Would you like his number?” She drains the remainder of her champagne then signals a nearby waiter.

“Girl, if you’re that willing to hand it over instead of keeping it for yourself, you are not nearly as smart as I thought you were.”

Diane laughs. “All right, all right, I admit he’s attractive. But he’s _very_ not my type. Or yours. Conservative, card carrying NRA member, grumpy as hell.”

Liz laughs. “And I’m sure you’ve just been a ray of sunshine to to deal with.” She takes a gulp of the fresh champagne the waiter has set in front of them. “Anyway, what do his politics matter? Republican, Democrat...they’re all the same in the dark.”

Diane smirks. “Maybe. I don’t know if...” She trails off suddenly and whatever her rejoinder was to be is lost as her attention is captured by something else.

“What?” Liz asks, trying to follow her gaze.

Diane shakes her head. “Nothing. Someone I used to know. So anyway, what happened with that fellow you were seeing in New York?”

Liz launches into an explanation, but Diane is only half-listening, her eyes still on the tall, dark haired man standing at the bar on the other side of the room. He’s talking to a young woman, tall and thin with honey blonde hair. He laughs and the young woman turns away. Even from across the room, Diane can see she’s upset. The man watches her go, the turns to walk in the opposite direction, coincidentally looking right at her. Quickly she looks away, focusing again on Liz’s story.

She’s still steadfastly refusing to look away from Liz when he appears beside her. “Diane Lockhart,” he says, gesturing expansively, with a genial smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I always knew you’d go places, I just didn’t expect them to be the same places as me.”

“Malcolm,” she says, forcing a pleasantly vacant smile of her own. “You always did have an over-inflated sense of your own exceptionalism.”

Liz looks from her to Malcolm and back again, eyes narrowed. “Liz Lawrence,” she says suddenly, sticking out her hand.

Malcolm ignores the younger woman for just a moment longer than is seemly, his eyes stuck on Diane’s. Only when she raises her eyebrow, does he turn away and accept Liz’s hand. “Malcolm Overby,” he says. “I’m with the DOJ.”

“Our new principal deputy solicitor general,” Liz says smoothly, “Yes, I’m aware. Diane didn’t mention she knew you.”

“I don’t,” she says shortly. “I only thought I did once.”

He turns back to her, his expression hardening. “Now Diane, all that is ancient history, isn’t it? I’m sure we can put our little college fling in the past where it belongs, since we’re probably going to run into one another now and then?”

“Of course,” she says smoothly. From behind Malcolm’s back, McVeigh must notice something on her face, as he takes a step away from the wall, his face questioning. She jerks her head quickly in the negative. That’s all she needs, some ridiculous display of masculine posturing. Nodding almost imperceptibly, he returns to his previous position, hands clasped together in front of him, eyes slowly and continually scanning the room.

“What was that all about?” Liz asks after Malcolm moves on.

“Nothing important,” Diane says, following him with her eyes until he disappears into the crowd. “Like he said, a brief fling in college, that ended badly.” She picks up her champagne, drinking deeply to cover the bad taste the words leave in her mouth.

“What kind of badly?” Liz asks, her voice gaining a hard edge.

She shrugs. “Badly. You know.”

“So, you too,” Liz says grimly.

“Oh yes, Me too.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Who was that guy?” McVeigh asks her gruffly as they cross the floor on their way to the exit a short time later.

Both Diane’s enthusiasm for the party and her slight champagne buzz had vanished in the wake of Malcolm’s visit to her table. Claiming a headache to an unconvinced Liz, she said her goodbyes and stood up from the table, pausing only long enough for McVeigh to see her, but not long enough for him to join her before she started off toward the exit. It made no difference; he caught up within a couple of steps. The heels she chose to compliment Marissa’s dress were not made for walking.

“Excuse me? What guy?” she asks, though she knows full well to whom he’s referring.

“From the table. You looked upset. Anything I need to know about?”

“Jealous?” she asks tonelessly, swerving around a group of people standing in her path.

“I meant, is he a candidate for your stalker?” McVeigh clarifies, giving her half-hearted insinuation all the attention it deserves.

“That was Malcolm Overby,” she snaps, without slowing down. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him, as he was just appointed as the new principal deputy solicitor general.” He and Malcolm probably have a lot in common, politically speaking, though they couldn’t be further apart in personality. McVeigh is many frustrating things, but he’s human, not reptile.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he states.

She forces air out through her nose, understanding his overblown sense of duty won’t allow him to let this go. Stopping short, she turns to face him. “No,” she says through gritted teeth. “He is not a candidate for my stalker. Before tonight we hadn’t lain eyes on each other in decades. I’m nothing to him, and vice versa. Now drop it. Please.” Without waiting for a response, she strides away, finally reaching the exit and pushing her way through the glass doors. Continuing on to the edge of the small courtyard just before the street, she stops and breathes deeply of the cold night air.

 _A brief fling in college_. The words she had used with Liz still taste rancid on her tongue. She understands now that it was her likely father’s name that drawn Malcolm to her, but at the time she had been flattered that someone like him - popular and athletic as well as brilliant - would be attracted to someone like her. She had been a studious young woman, with an overly earnest passion for liberal, feminist causes, and her busy schedule and general disinterest in the campus party scene had left her with little opportunity to date.

They went out three times. The first two dates were fine. Not wonderful, in retrospect, but she had still been hopeful enough to agree to a third. But by the end of that dinner, all remaining illusions had evaporated. He talked only of himself, showed disdain for the causes she was passionate about, mentioned meeting her father one too many times, until finally she told him her father discouraged her from dating at all, particularly not other law students, whom he viewed as her competition. So obviously, she wouldn’t be introducing them.

Her plan was to end the date politely and just not accept another should he ever call again, which seemed unlikely at that point. His plan was a little different. Instead of driving her straight back to her dorm from the restaurant, he detoured through town, veering off into a deserted parking lot next to a children’s playground.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. That’s what she told herself when he finally took her home. She’d heard stories from other girls about boys who didn’t take no for an answer, and what happened to her wasn’t as bad as what happened to some of them. But it was bad enough. She never told a soul; she couldn’t. Her father would have been so disappointed in her.

Closing her eyes, she exhales heavily. Before today, she hadn’t thought of that night in decades. It was a long time before she got into a car alone with a man again.

When she opens her eyes again, McVeigh has appeared at her side. She just can’t seem to shake that man.

“I radioed Miranda,” he says. “She’ll pull the car up to the curb.”

Diane nods, crossing her arms across her chest to hug herself tightly. The night air that had initially felt refreshing, now is just cold. She rubs her hands up and down her goose pebbled arms.

She doesn’t realize McVeigh has walked around behind her until suddenly he’s laying his black suit jacket across her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she says, accepting that keeping her from freezing to death could properly fall under his protection duties. She holds the lapels closed with one hand, leaving the other wrapped around her abdomen.

Moving again to stand by her side, he nods slightly, lips pressed firmly together.

“You might want to consider mentioning...” he begins after a moment.

She holds up one hand, shaking her head. “Just...don’t talk.”

* * *

“Maia!” Diane exclaims, leaning back in her chair and swivelling it away from the desk so she cross her legs. “It’s so wonderful to hear from you! When are you coming out here so I can show you off?”

“Soon,” her goddaughter promises, laughing. And then after a long pause she adds, her voice crackling with semi-restrained excitement, “Maybe we’ll consider it for our honeymoon.”

The line falls silent as Diane processes what she’s heard. She sits up straight in her chair. “Honeymoon? Maia? Are you and Amy..?”

“Yes!” the younger woman shrieks. “We’re engaged!”

Diane whoops in excitement, falling back in her chair, her mind instantly zeroing in on wedding plans. Having no children of her own, she’s always doted over her goddaughter. She can’t wait to see her in her dress!

“Well forget about a trip out here,” she says. “God, what a horrible honeymoon destination. But I will certainly be making a trip home for the wedding. Have you set a date?”

“Not yet. But we are having an engagement party this weekend. I know it’s short notice, but I hope you can make it?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she says without pausing. Whatever she may have on the calendar this weekend can either be handled remotely or rescheduled. In truth, with everything happening here, it’s already been too long since she was home. She could visit her constituency office, maybe do some local interviews…

She manages pulls herself back from work distractions in time to hear Maia say something about going out for lunch. She glances quickly at her watch.

“Damn it. Maia, I have to go; I have a lunch meeting to get to myself. But congratulations, sweetheart! Give my love to Amy. I can’t wait to see you both.”

She disconnects her call and slides into her coat, picking up her bag from the shelf in the closet. She’s got fifteen minutes to get to where she needs to be.

McVeigh is sitting alone in her anteroom when she emerges, leaning over on his knees, newspaper spread open on the coffee table before him. Seeing her, he folds up the paper and stands. “Where to?” he asks gruffly. “Miranda’s gone to pick up lunch, but I can call her back.”

She waves him off as she loops her ivory cashmere scarf around her neck, tying it jauntily off-centre. “I don’t have time to wait for her. I’ll walk.”

He sighs heavily, giving her one of the looks of long-suffering she’s come to despise. Thank goodness Eli had agreed not to renew his contract, so as of this weekend, she’s free. Just in time to go to Chicago for the engagement party. Alone. Though it would almost have been worth taking him along just to see the look on Lenore’s face when she walked into the party with him.

“Fine, I’ll walk with you,” he says shortly. Grabbing his coat from next him on the couch and shrugs into it and crosses the to the door, pushing it open and waiting for her to walk through.

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t bother to object. At least he's not insisting on the car.  _Three more days._

Exiting the Hart Building, they proceed down the sidewalk, crossing Constitution Avenue, and entering the Capitol grounds. It’s a beautiful fall day, sunny and crisp, with no wind to speak of. Diane toys with her scarf as she walks, untying it and unwrapping it from around her neck, leaving it to hang loose over her jacket.

“I suppose you’re looking forward to being free of me after the end of the week,” she remarks to McVeigh, who has been walking silently beside her, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his brown leather bomber.

He glances at her strangely, but doesn’t deign to answer, just continues his constant monitoring of their environment as they continue along the path. She shrugs to herself. That’s fine. She’s actually grown somewhat accustomed to his silently stoic presence by her side. When he’s not making a nuisance of himself, it’s almost calming. Not that she would ever admit that to either him or to Eli. There’s a vast ocean of difference between not completely disliking his company and being accepting of the limitations he imposes on her autonomy.

An odd hissing noise interrupts her thoughts, and she raises her head just in time to see the limb of a tree to her left flying abruptly free of its truck, a loud wooden crack echoing all around her. Before she can even turn her head to comment, McVeigh shoves her, suddenly and violently, to the ground. Her knees scrape against the asphalt of the path, and she cries out, both in pain and shock. What the _hell?_

McVeigh crouches beside her, pushing her roughly down until she’s lying prone on the ground, her face against the cold wet grass beside the path. Her hair has fallen across her face, obscuring her vision, and she struggles against the strength of his hold, trying to free her arms from beneath herself. Through the curtain of her hair she sees him pull his gun from beneath his coat.

“Stay down!” he shouts, and then suddenly she’s no longer restrained. Rising up onto her arms, she sees him on his feet, half-crouched beside her, his gun pointed at the end his outstretched hands. His face is a mask of fury, a deep line of concentration between his brows, his jaw set. His arms do not waver.

All around them, people are screaming, running away. Her brain screams at her to run too. Somewhere far in the distance a siren wails.

The hissing sound comes again, much too close, and she drops back to the ground, covering her head with her arms. This time she recognizes the crack of gunfire an instant later.

Much later, when she tries to give her statement to law enforcement, all she remembers of the next few moments is chaos - people screaming, shots ringing out, the smell of the earth beneath her face. And McVeigh, falling to the ground beside her, blood pouring from a wound in his chest.

Diane screams and crawls on her belly to reach him. Pulling the scarf from around her neck, she presses it firmly against the wound. “Kurt!” she says urgently, placing her free hand against his cheek. “Kurt, look at me!”

His eyes flutter open and he groans, his mouth moving, but no words emerging.

She turns her head and screams, “Call 911,” not knowing who she’s asking, not knowing whether the shooter is still active, or if they’re still in danger. All that matter is that he gets help. He can’t die. He can’t.

“Stay with me, McVeigh,” she says turning back to him, trying to smile reassuringly, her thumb moving gently against his rough beard. “You’re going to be fine. You know how I know that? Because if you died, you know I’d use it to fight for stronger gun control laws, and there’s no way you’re going to give me that kind of ammunition, right? Not a chance. So you’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.”

She repeats the words over and over, a frantic mantra, but she can’t tell if he hears her. After a moment, his eyes lose focus and his lids flutter closed again. She continues to press her scarf to his chest until his blood seeps through the ivory cashmere, staining it a violent red. The sirens, thankfully, draw closer.


	7. Chapter 7

“Obviously she’s in shock,” Eli says to Detective Solis who has been attempting to question her for the past half hour. “She was just very nearly assassinated for fuck’s sake! She’s answering your questions as best she can, but understandably, she’s having trouble focusing right now!”

Spine ramrod straight and hands folded in front of her, Diane sits behind a small table, in a drab conference room, deep within the maze of hallways that make up the United States Capitol Police Headquarters. A mug of black coffee sits, cold and unnoticed, to her left. Every so often the lead detective has sat down across from her and gently attempted to question her. And she’s tried, she’s honestly tried, to make sense of the events that ended with Kurt McVeigh lying in the grass with a hole in his chest, but every time she thinks about it, all she can see is the blood, his blood, staining her scarf and spreading across the pavement underneath him. Inhaling sharply, she closes her eyes and squeezes her hands together until her knuckles are white and her fingers ache.

“I understand that Mr. Gold, but we have one shooter in the morgue and another in serious condition at Howard University Hospital. We need to know what happened to put them there. She’s the best witness we’ve got.” Detective Solis stand with her chief of staff on the other side of the room.

“And she told you what happened!” Eli is agitated on her behalf, some part of her notes and appreciates, even as she’s unable to acknowledge his presence. “Someone started shooting at her! And Kurt McVeigh, who is a professional security expert hired to protect her, did exactly that! The man is a hero, not a suspect, you idiot!”

The detective's voice remains cool and even despite the provocation. “I’m sure that’s what happened, sir, but you must understand we need more details than that. What if the deceased gunman wasn’t acting alone? Don’t you want to know whether there is any threat remaining to Senator Lockhart?”

There’s a long pause, and when Eli finally speaks again, he sounds as though he’s been punched in the stomach. “Yes, of course, Detective. I understand. Could you please give me a few minutes alone with the senator?”

The woman doesn’t answer, not with any words Diane can hear, but after a moment the door squeaks open, then bangs closed and a few seconds later Eli appears in the chair across from her. His face is drawn, his shoulders slumped and when he reaches across the table to pull her fingers carefully apart, his own hands shake.

“How is he?” she asks, her voice rough and cracking. Please, please let Eli’s hush-hush network of informants come through with the news she needs.

“Still in surgery,” he says, shaking his head. “My contact will let me know as soon as he’s out, but it’ll be at least a few more hours until we know anything concrete.”

“Eli…” She stops, unable to complete the sentence. A man could die because of her. Because he was trying to protect her when she was too damned stubborn to just take a _fucking car_ instead of walking. She inhales deeply, trying to hold back a sob, turning her head to hide her shame.

Across from her, Eli squeezes the hands he’s still holding. “Diane. Stop it. Look at me. Don’t do that. This is horrible, okay? But it’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault but the guy in the morgue. McVeigh did his job. He saved your life and probably a bunch of other people’s too by shooting that son of a bitch. He knew exactly what he signed up for..”

She turns back to him. “Did he? Did he know he would be putting himself at greater risk because I was in denial?” She pulls away from his grasp and swipes angrily at her eyes with the back of her hand. “This _is_ my fault, Eli, for refusing to listen to what a professional was telling me, for refusing to what would us keep both safe.”

“Okay,” he agrees after a moment, throwing his hands up. “Fine. You’re right. You should have listened to him. But you’re human, Diane. No one can fault you for having trouble believing someone might really want to hurt you.”

She laughs, mirthless, harsh and broken. “I should have believed it. I should have believed it easily. My god, look at the world we’re living in. Children killed for no other reason than they chose not to skip school that day. Adults killed because they went out dancing with their friends, or to a concert, or to goddamned church. People are killed everyday in this country for no reason and with no warning. How many times have I sat down with grieving parents who would have given anything to have had some kind of warning that their child was in danger? I _had_ warning, Eli. I had warning and I chose to ignore it.

Eli sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is this helping McVeigh, you beating yourself up? Is this what he would want?”

She snorts bitterly. “Me, admitting I was wrong? I expect he would want that, yes.”

He gives a one shouldered shrug, conceding the point. “But wouldn’t he also want you to cooperate with law enforcement?”

Her anger drains away. “I’m trying to cooperate, Eli, I really am. It all happened so fast. I…” The truth is, the first couple of times Detective Solis tried to question her, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on much of anything, the image of McVeigh on the ground overriding all other thoughts. Shock, she supposes. She’s probably still in it, but having Eli here helps. “I should try again, you’re right. But I want you to stay.”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he promises her.

* * *

 

“Here, drink this.” Marissa sets a glass of scotch on the desk in front of her and Diane dives for it, tossing it back in one gulp. The fiery liquid burns her throat on the way down, but the warmth that blooms outward from her belly is bracing. She sets the glass down, and Marissa fills it once more without comment, then puts the bottle away, out of sight in a cabinet across the room.

She had left the police station after what felt like weeks, and emerged into a transformed world. On the surface, everything had appeared to be the same - the congested DC streets; Eli’s spotless silver Mercedes driven round to a private exit where they could avoid the throngs of press; her own elegantly appointed office - but none of it felt real. The places, the people, all of it feels now like the remnants of someone else’s life, a life of naivete that came to a bloody end back in the park. She’s a different person now.

As Marissa returns to sit down opposite her, Eli pushes his way through her office door, holding up his phone in triumph. “I just got off the phone with my nurse friend. He’s going to be okay.” .

“Oh thank god.” Diane collapses over onto her desk, resting her head on folded arms. _He’s going to be okay._ She squeezes her eyes shut, fervently thanking all the gods she doesn’t believe in.

Still speaking, Eli comes closer and she hears him fall into the vacant chair beside his daughter. “He hasn’t regained consciousness yet, but the surgery was a complete success. He won’t have any lasting damage. Apparently if you’re going to get shot in the chest, he picked the right spot.”

She straightens up in her seat. “Will his recovery time be long?”

He shakes his head. “She said he’ll be in hospitalized for another week or so, but he’s a healthy guy; he should heal quickly.”

She inhales deeply, trying to quell the panic that stirring in her belly. “We need to make sure he’s safe. What do we know about the hospital’s security protocol? Or no, never mind. We need to tell Detective Solis we want him guarded at all times. She needs to post someone at his door. What’s her number?” She picks up her phone from her desk.

Eli stares at her. “Diane, the gunman is dead.”

“You heard Detective Solis! They can’t be sure he was working alone!” She can hear the hysteria spilling over in her own voice, but she’s unable to rein herself in. Her heart pounds and she covers it with her hand over it, pushing hard, trying to keep it from flying out of her chest as she gasps for air.

_McVeigh’s chest, bloody and broken. His eyes fluttering closed._

Marissa stands and rushes around behind her desk, crouching down and taking her hands. “It’s okay, Diane. Look at me. Breathe.”

Diane obeys, staring into her assistant’s eyes, inhaling and exhaling until the grasping panic starts to ease and her breathing returns to normal.

“That’s it,” Marissa says. “You’re fine. He’s going to be fine. And you know what? I’ve met a bunch of the people he has working for him. They’re very loyal. There’s no way he’s not going to be guarded, and more fiercely than any police officer would. You know that’s true.”

She nods, blinking rapidly. “I… I know.” It is true. She knows McVeigh’s team has great respect and admiration for him, and they’re as disciplined and well-trained as a military operation. They’ll keep him safe.

A soft rapping sound causes all three of them look up just as one of her staff members pokes her head through the partially open door. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a USCP Detective here to see you?”

“Send her in,” Eli tells her. “Then go home. It’s late.”

“Yes, Mr Gold.” The staffer steps aside and Detective Solis enters the office as Marissa retakes her seat.

“Thank you, Brianne,” Diane says just before the young woman pulls the door closed behind her. She knows the only reason the young woman is still here, the only reason any of them are still here, is as a show of solidarity with her. “Tell everyone else to go home too. I’m okay. And it’s going to be crazy in here tomorrow.”

The young woman smiles and nods. “Yes, ma’am. Good night.”

Detective Solis watches their exchange quietly from just inside the door, approaching her desk only after the door is closed again.

“Do you have news for us, Detective?” Eli asks.

The woman looks exhausted, but she stands a little straighter as she answers.“Yes. I wanted to let you know that all early indications are that the shooter acted alone. Of course we’ll question Mr. McVeigh as soon as he’s sufficiently recovered, but all the other witnesses, and there were a number of them, told us there were only two people with guns: Mr. McVeigh, and the deceased, a man named Adam Walker.”

Diane shivers. The deceased. A man named Adam Walker had woken up that morning and decided to end her life. And lost his own instead. How is that possible?

“Does that name mean anything to any of you?” the detective asks.

It doesn’t. Not to Diane, and not to Eli or Marissa either, judging by their blank expressions.

“No. Who was he?” Diane asks.

“A student at Georgetown. Or at least he was up until a few months ago when he dropped out. It seems like he was having some kind of mental health crisis.” Detective Solis pauses. “We’ve been inside his apartment.”

“And?” Eli prompts.

“And it’s clear he was obsessed with Senator Lockhart. We found hundreds of pictures of her in his residence, along with several items she reported stolen from her apartment during the break-in. We’ll do our best to find some form of independent confirmation, but I’m fairly confident in saying we’ve found your intruder.”

Exhaling heavily, Diane falls back in her chair, covering her face, horrified, and yet somehow almost relieved. It’s over. The other shoe has finally dropped. But…she slides her hands down her face and over her mouth, remembering that McVeigh is still lying in a hospital bed across town, and a young man who should never have been able to gain access to a gun, and who should have had greater access to mental health resources, is lying dead in a morgue. She’s ashamed of herself. There’s no cause for relief here.

“How did he get a gun?” she asks the detective.

“We’re still looking in to that ma’am. There were a number of weapons found in his apartment, but we haven’t yet determined their legality. We’re also testing his printer to compare it to the letters you received, and our tech department is going to comb through his computer.”

“But if you’re sure he was acting alone,” Marissa asks, “why do all that? There’s obviously not going to be a trial; the guy’s dead.”

The detective gives Marissa an impatient look. “Because that’s our job. Every instinct I have says this was one disturbed man acting alone, but we have certain boxes we have to tick before we can close the case.”

“And if you find out he acquired the guns illegally, you’ll pursue charges there?” Diane asks.

“Of course, but it’s just as likely he bought them legally. That’s the world we live in, as I’m sure you’re aware.” She shrugs futilely; the gesture of a someone who has given up hope of anything ever changing. “Anyway, that’s all I have for now. I just wanted to let you know so you can sleep easier tonight. You’re safe.”

Diane isn’t sure she will ever sleep easily again.


	8. Chapter 8

“McVeigh is awake.” Eli’s voice comes from the speaker of the phone sitting on the desk in front of her. “My contact just arrived for her shift, and she says he’s alert and doing as well as can be expected. The doctor will probably allow the police to interview him later today.”

Diane falls back in her seat, waves of relief washing over her like a symphony. Her eyes sting with sudden emotion and it’s a moment before she can speak. She presses her hand to her chest. “Oh thank god. He really is a tough old son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

She can hear the grin in Eli’s voice when he answers. “Tough like boot leather. Listen, I’ll be back in the office in about half an hour. I can call the hospital and arrange for a visit. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind clearing out the place so a grateful senator can visit her hero.”

She swallows, cheeks flaming with shame. McVeigh won’t want to see her, and she can’t blame him one bit, not after how she behaved and the harm it caused. The most respectful thing she can do now is leave him in peace. “Oh, Eli, I don’t know,” she says evasively. “I think we should leave him alone, let him regain some of his strength before we intrude on him. You know a man like that won’t want anyone seeing him at his weakest.”

Eli is silent for a beat, and she thinks for a moment he’s going to call her on her b.s., but thankfully he lets it slide. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. We can give him a bit more time to heal before we descend on him.”

She ends the call a few minutes later, then calls for Marissa. There is one way she can express her gratitude without actually having to face the man.

“I’d like to send flowers to Mr. McVeigh in the hospital,” she tells her assistant when she appears in the doorway. “Something tasteful, and...er... masculine.”

“Masculine flowers?” Marissa asks doubtfully. “What, like, phallic shaped ones, or..?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just ask the florist what they recommend. And I want the note to say, ‘Eternally grateful for your service. Highest regards, Senator Diane Lockhart.”

Marissa makes a face. “The man saved your life, and that’s what you want to say? Really?”

She narrows her eyes. “What’s wrong with it?”

Marissa waves her hand. “Nothing, it’s just a little, I don’t know ...impersonal, don’t you think?”

Perhaps it is, but she’s hardly going to pour her heart out in a florist’s note for all the world to see. “It’s fine. I’ll see him to thank him personally when he’s recovered.” It’s the right thing to do, to get past her shame, and apologize and thank him. And she will. When he’s on his feet again and capable of showing her the door if he so chooses, which he almost certainly will.

“Okay,” Marissa says, drawing the word out to pointed proportions. “If you say so.”

That young woman is growing entirely too comfortable speaking her mind, though then again, what did she expect when hiring another Gold. “I do say so. And also, I need you to book me a flight to Chicago for tomorrow morning.

“Wait, what? Tomorrow? You want to go to Chicago tomorrow?” Now she’s agape, as if Diane had asked her to fly her there herself, under her own power.

“Yes,” she replies, faux-patiently. “My goddaughter’s engagement party is tomorrow evening. And honestly, I need some time away. I was only going to go for the party, but I think I might stay a bit longer. I don’t think anyone will begrudge me that, under the circumstances, do you?”

Marissa mouth opens and closes a couple more times before she replies. “No, no of course not. But won’t the police need to talk to you?”

“About what? Marissa, the shooter is dead. There’s nothing else to say. It’s over.”

* * *

“Call me as soon as you land,” Eli says in her ear as she walks along the concourse toward her departure gate.

“I will,” she promises. “You’re acting like this isn’t the thousandth time I’ve flown from DC to Chicago. I’m fine.” If Eli could see her, her breezy words would be belied by her haggard appearance. With her hair unstyled and hanging in her face, no makeup, and dressed in old yoga pants and a hoodie, she looks ten years older. It would be a wonderful disguise if only she didn’t feel every one of them.

She hasn’t slept since the shooting. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees the ghost of Adam Walker walking through the rooms of her apartment, bloodied dead hands trailing over her belongings. Or worse, Kurt McVeigh, lying on the ground, the light in his eyes slowly dimming, his blood on her hands, literally and figuratively. She doesn’t even have to close her eyes to see that one.

“You’re right; I’m sorry,” Eli says. “Look, I want you to relax this weekend. Stay with friends; don’t go into the constituency office. I talked to Jeff this morning, and the press is all over them. They’re probably at your townhouse too.”

“That’s the plan,” she tells him. Maia is picking her up at O’Hare and they’re going straight to the Rindell estate. She doesn’t plan on leaving until it’s time to go back to DC.

“Eli, I have to go.” She has arrived at the gate just in time to hear them announce her section is boarding. “I’ll call when I land. Bye.”

* * *

Maia is waiting for her at the baggage claim when she deplanes. Just the sight of the smiling young woman takes thirty pounds off her shoulders. She walks into her embrace, squeezing her tightly.

“God, I’m glad to be home,” she tells her, backing up and squeezing her goddaughter’s hands before releasing her.

“I’ll bet,” Maia says. “You look like you could sleep for week.” She stops, hand flying to her mouth as she realizes what she’s implied. “I mean, you look great, I just…”

“I look like a zombie,” Diane corrects dryly. “And you’re right, I don’t think I’ve slept since it happened.”

“Well, we’ve got the guest room made up for you. Do you need to go to your place first?”

Diane shakes her head. “Not right now. In fact, I might get someone from my constituency office to go pick up some things for me later. I’m sure the press will figure out I’m here before too long and have the place staked out, if it’s not already.”

* * *

The engagement party is in full swing by 9:00 that evening. Diane had attempted to nap that afternoon, with only moderate success, and while still not really in a party mood, she’s been able to fake it reasonably well for Maia and Amy’s sake.

Or so she thought.

“So how are you doing, really?” Lenore asks, sliding into the seat beside her, a glass of red wine in each hand. She deposits one at Diane’s elbow and keeps the other for herself.

She pulls the glass over until it’s directly in front of her, twisting the stem around with her fingertips. “Oh, fine,” she says lightly. “Exhausted - the press has been relentless, of course, and I think everyone I’ve ever met has called to check on me - but I’m okay. It could have been so much worse. If my security expert hadn’t…” Her voice cracks on the word expert, and Lenore’s head swivels around to look at her. “Hadn’t acted so quickly, many more people could have been hurt,” she finishes quickly, coughing to the clear the tickle in the back of her throat.

“Your security expert, huh?” the other woman prompts, eyes shining with secondhand adrenalin. “The man who took out the shooter. He was shot himself, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” she says, then slugs back a large swallow of wine. “But he’s going to be fine.”

Lenore nods slowly. “I suppose you’ll have a big ceremony, give him some kind of award for heroism.”

She almost smiles at the thought, then shakes her head. The very idea of McVeigh getting up on stage and accepting an award, allowing people to fawn all over him, is ludicrous. She would never put him through that, even if he would allow it, even if the idea of she, of all people, rewarding him for his efforts wouldn’t be so hypocritical as to be insulting.

“He’s not really the accolades type,” she explains quietly. “He would probably say he was just doing his job.” Doing it to the best of his ability despite her every effort to undermine him. She takes another large gulp of wine.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. “Diane what’s wrong?” Lenore asks.

She lowers her head, shame preventing her from looking at the other woman straight on. “It’s my fault, Lenore. All of this happened because I didn’t take the situation seriously enough. I didn’t follow the instructions of the professional hired to protect me, and because of that I nearly got him killed.”

Diane has known Lenore Rindell for well over half her life at this point, has spent countless hours her company, but aren’t friends, not really. She’s Henry’s wife and Maia’s mother, but they have little personal connection beyond that. The woman won’t coddle her, not like Maia or Marissa, or even Eli would. She won’t try to make her feel better. It makes her the ideal person to unload all this on. She doesn’t want to feel better. She lifts her chin and turns her head to face her judgement.

“So in other words you were being your usual smartest person in the room, perfectly polite so people don’t notice you condescend to them, dismissive self, yes?” The other woman smirks and raises an eyebrow.

Diane snorts. Yep, that’s Lenore. “Basically, yes.” Except he had definitely noticed when she was being condescending, and seemed to find it amusing.

“So he was a wuss.” Lenore picks up her own wine glass and bobs it in Diane’s direction before taking a drink.

Her jaw drops. “What? No. Did you miss the part where he shot and killed the man who was trying to kill me and possibly a bunch of innocent bystanders?”

Lenore waves her hand dismissively. “But he let you boss him around. Let you get away with not following his safety rules. You just did whatever you wanted, Ms my-shit-don’t-stink Senator Diane Lockhart, and he just...what? Followed you around with a lovesick smile, ready to shoot anyone who looked at you funny?

“No, of course not,” she replies indignantly. “He and his team kept watch over me in public places, chauffeured me to and from events. He coordinated with Capitol and private security; they went through my mail looking for threats... He is very good at his job!”

Lenore smirks as if she’s made her point. “And you may have bitched and moaned, but I bet you mostly did what he told you.”

And she has to admit it’s true; she mostly did. Rarely without complaint, or at least a sarcastic comment, but for the most part she had grown accustomed to his strong, silent presence by her side. In fact, even that day, she remembers being mildly surprised when he didn’t put up more of a fight when she refused to wait for Miranda to return with the car. She wonders if she would have waited, had he insisted. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. She should have listened the first time.

“Look, Diane,” Lenore continues, kindly, in her way. “I know you like to think you’re all-powerful, but this wasn’t your fault. Should you apologize for being a brat? Sure.” She gives a half shrug. “But you didn’t put a bullet in the man. And if he’s the hero you say he is, he knows that.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

Her evening flight back to DC is bumpy, jolting her stomach into her throat again and again, with ever-increasing vehemence. Holding her breath, she closes her eyes, her hands balling into fists and pushing up against her ribs as she hugs herself tightly. It’s funny; flying has never frightened her before. She’s racked up so many miles over the past eight years that she puts migratory birds to shame, but now...

Well, walking through a park never scared her before either. You just never know what might happen.

She takes a car service directly from the airport home, then holds her breath in the hallway for a long moment before finally slotting her key into the lock, and entering her apartment. The air has that slightly stale taste of a place long-abandoned, even though it’s only been empty for a few days. She flicks on several lamps as she crosses the room, banishing the murky shadows, then swivels open a window, letting in the cold night air.

More lights blink to life in her wake as she continues on to her bedroom, and only when the farthest corner of space is illuminated does she finally exhale, sinking down onto her bed. Nothing is disturbed. There are no monsters in the closet. Folding over on herself, she cradles her head in her hands, remembering that first day with McVeigh when he performed this check for her, while she scoffed in the hallway. So arrogant she had been then; so naive.

From the living room, her phone rings. Eli, undoubtedly, calling to berate her for not checking in immediately upon landing.

Pushing off from the bed, she retraces her steps, following the ringtone to the armchair where she had dropped her bag.

“Any updates on McVeigh?” she asks, not bothering with a greeting.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Eli snaps back, his natural sarcasm flowing reflexively after a moment of confused silence. “He’s being released tomorrow.”

She sinks down onto the arm of the chair. “So soon? Did you see him? Does he seem ready for that?” Her free hand grips the upholstery like a vice.

“Yes. I dropped in this morning. He looks good; moving a bit slowly, but he says he’s fine and not in much pain.”

She almost laughs. Of course he _would_ say that. “And you believed him?”

Eli snorts. “No. But my nurse friend says he’s healing up nicely. I passed along your regards and told him you were out of town, doing your best to stay out of sight to avoid stirring up the press anymore than they already are, and otherwise you _surely_ would have put in an appearance yourself by now.” His disapproval is palpable and she flushes with shame.

“What did he say to that?” she asks. _Does he hate me?_

“Nothing, really,” Eli says, which is about what she expected. He’s a professional. He won’t speak badly of her, not to Eli, not to the police, and not to the press. She cringes thinking of all the people to whom she had complained about him. “Just that he got your flowers.”

It’s fortunate Eli can’t see her cheeks flame red as any hope he may have missed seeing that awful card vanishes. “I’ll go see him when he’s settled in at home,” she says, promising Eli, but more importantly herself. “Privately.”

* * *

Diane blows out a breath through pursed lips and taps the corner of her phone against her desk, her eyes fixated on the contact displayed on the screen. She needs to at least call him. Far too much time has passed already. Reaching toward the screen, she extends her index finger toward McVeigh’s cell phone number.

“Hey lady,” Liz says from the doorway of her office.

“Liz! Hello! God it’s good to see you.” Relieved by the interruption, she drops the phone to her desk and stands, crossing the room to enfold her friend in a tight embrace.

“Oof,” the other woman say, laughing. “I missed you too, Diane, but you know, you could have seen me much sooner if I’d known you were back! Marissa told me you were still in Illinois!”

“I was until the other night,” she says, stepping back.  “I asked Marissa to keep my return quiet, but I didn’t mean from you.”

“Is the press still hounding you?” Liz asks soberly. No doubt her office had also been fielding calls, along with all her other colleagues, from both sides of the aisle.

Diane walks back around her desk. “It’s starting to slow down now that the police have released a final statement saying the case is closed: Adam Walker was the sole perpetrator, and Kurt McVeigh acted in self defense. No charges will be laid,” she intones like a newscaster. “Everything can go back to normal now.”

Her face must betray her true feelings, because her friend doesn’t crack a smile as she sits down opposite her. “Except it’s not that easy, is it?”

She shakes her head quickly, a lump forming in her throat. It’s not that easy. A young man is still dead, his parents left to mourn the loss of their child in a world that sees him as a monster, his memory permanently tainted by his final actions.

Liz reaches across the desk to squeeze her hand. “Diane. It wasn’t your fault.”

She looks away. People keep telling her that. That it wasn’t her fault a young man’s diseased brain chose to fixate on her. That there wasn’t anything she could have done to change the outcome. She’s not so sure. “The system failed him, Liz, and I’m the system. All of us in government, we’re the system.”

“And we’re doing the best we can.” Liz’s words are hollow, wooden, as though she doesn’t really believe them herself.

“Are we?” Diane shakes her head. “It’s not enough.”

Liz sighs. “It never is. But all we can do is keep trying.”

She smiles wearily. “Yeah.” She’s just so tired. If she can ever manage a good night’s sleep, surely she’ll start to see a way forward. Leaning back in her chair, she rubs her right temple where a headache threatens.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Liz clears her throat. “So how is that hero bodyguard of yours doing? If he was looking fine before, he must look even better now, after taking a bullet for you.”

She sighs, bracing for the inevitable, justifiable, criticism. “I don’t know, actually; I haven’t seen him.’

Liz’s jaw drops. “You haven’t seen him? What? You didn’t visit him in the hospital?”

“We didn't get along, Liz. I didn’t want to intrude.” Why does no one understand this? She’s surely the last person he would have wanted in his hospital room. “Eli saw him and conveyed my gratitude.”

Liz looks at her like she’s lost her mind, and honestly, it’s a possibility. “Diane, you owe the man your life. Okay, I can understand not wanting to intrude while he was hospitalized, especially with the media everywhere, but he’s out now, right? And you still haven’t seen him?”

“I sent flowers,” she says weakly, flushing as she remembers the ridiculous, overly-formal note she dictated to Marissa.

Liz snorts. “He doesn’t seem like a guy fluent in the language of flowers, Diane.”

“I know. You’re right. I was actually just about to call him when you walked in. I will go and thank him properly. I just…” She stops, a lump forming in her throat.

Liz’s eyes narrow. “What?”

"I’m just so...ashamed.” The words emerge high and wavering, not sounding like her at all. “People keep telling me this isn’t my fault, and I know that it’s not. I know that. But I can’t stop thinking about how difficult I was. Liz, I was such a bitch and the man still took a bullet for me. I’m sure he hates me, and rightfully so.”

“I doubt that’s not true,” Liz says. “But even if it was?”

“It doesn’t change the fact that I owe him an apology,” Diane finishes quietly. “I know.”

* * *

Diane pours herself another glass of wine, hoping, but not really believing, it will be enough to allow her a good night’s sleep. Picking it up, she adjusts her position, tucking her legs underneath her, and leaning on her elbow against the arm of the couch. Vivaldi plays softly on the sound system, loud enough to ease the oppressive silence, but quiet enough it won’t mask the sounds of an intruder.

She swallows a mouthful of wine and sets the glass down, shivering as she pulls her oversized cardigan more tightly around her thin frame.

Her apartment still feels foreign, cold, like a careful recreation in a museum- superficially the same as it once was, but ultimately lacking the warmth and emotion of the original room. She sighs and picks up her glass again. She can’t imagine ever feeling comfortable here again. Probably she’s going to have to move.

Her phone sits on the couch beside her, dark and accusingly silent. She hasn’t been able to bring herself to call McVeigh yet. Every time she considers it, she feels ill, literally sick to her stomach with shame and guilt. What can she even say to the man?

“Coward,” she says out loud to the room. In her mind’s eye she can see him, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, that maddening smirk firmly in place on his normally deadpan face, his eyes sparkling with amusement at her expense.

Snatching her phone up from the table, she quickly jabs at the screen and then lifts the phone to her ear and straightens her spine.


	10. Chapter 10

Kurt McVeigh’s home, Diane decides, is a nearly perfect architectural representation of the man himself. A well maintained, but rustic cabin in a rural area near Frederick, it’s surrounded on all sides by thick copses of trees which conceal it from passersby: a hidden treasure, seen by only a chosen few.

It took Freddy, her car service driver, over an hour to deliver her there, but now that she’s arrived, she wants nothing more than to climb back inside the big black Lincoln, return to her city and her haunted apartment, and hide herself from away. Instead, she stands on the front porch of the man who saved her life, a man who would be quite justified in hating her guts, with her hand poised to knock, and her stomach tied up in knots.

Straightening her spine, she curses lightly under her breath, then lowers her knuckles to the glass of the aluminum storm door, knocking lightly, and then, gritting her teeth, once again more firmly.

A minute passes before the overhead porch light flares to life, drenching her in harsh white light. Blinking, she lets her hand fall back to her side.

The heavy wooden door glides backward, and McVeigh appears from the darkness behind it, his head slightly tilted to the left, regarding her impassively from behind the glass of the storm door. Diane’s heart sinks as she notes how gaunt he appears, how haggard and drawn. There are new lines carved into his face, and the fragile skin under his eyes is stained purple. She did this to him. _She_ did. She wants to sink into the ground.

“Tell me you didn’t drive out here by yourself,” he says finally, his voice carrying through the glass.

She grits her teeth at his abruptness, reminding herself the man had recently taken a bullet for her. He’s earned the right to be short. “No. I hired a car. He’s still waiting in the lane if you’d prefer I go.”

He doesn’t answer right away. As seen through the streaked glass of the storm door, the minute change in his expression could mean anything or nothing. It could merely be a figment of her imagination. Mostly, she thinks, he looks exhausted. Her appearance here isn’t helping him. And it certainly isn’t helping her. She nods once, sparely, then turns around to leave.

His voice, rough and low, reaches out to her from behind. “What are you doing here, Senator Lockhart?”

She slows, considers pretending she hasn’t heard and just walking down the stairs and off the porch, and following his lane until she reaches Freddy’s car parked a short ways up from the road. But that would be cowardly, and of all the unpleasant qualities she’s demonstrated lately, cowardice is that the one that stings the most. She turns back, looking down at the scuffed wooden surface of the porch, and then up, facing him directly through the glass, her chin tilted defiantly. “I came to say thank you. For saving my life. And to apologize for making your job more difficult than it needed to be. I am sorry, Mr. McVeigh. Truly.”

He stares back at her, stony-faced, and then, somewhat to her consternation, he merely nods in acknowledgement.

She looks carefully at him, searching through the distortions of the glass for signs of forgiveness, or understanding, or even of anger and mistrust, but there are none, no indications of how he feels about her apology at all. But that’s probably fair enough. He doesn’t owe her forgiveness, or anything else. She’s the one who owes him, and if all she can give him is freedom from her presence, then so be it.

Pressing her lips together in a hollow parody of a smile, she inclines her head and takes a step backwards in preparation to leave.

Abruptly, the storm door squeals open. McVeigh steps to the side, his arm locked at the elbow, holding the door ajar with one flattened palm, waiting silently for her to enter.

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t hesitate. Passing through the open door, she turns carefully sideways so as not to brush against his injured chest. Once she’s inside, he lets the storm door bang closed, then firmly closes the inner door after it. Without even sparing her a glance, he disappears further into the house.

Diane quickly shoots Freddy a text, letting him know to leave without her, then trails after McVeigh. She finds him in a tidy old-fashioned kitchen, retrieving two lowball glasses from a cupboard and setting them down on the counter. He adds an inch of scotch to each from the bottle sitting next to them, then passes one to her. “You look like you could use that,” he says with half a shrug.

She laughs mirthlessly. The gunshot victim thinks she looks a little rough around the edges. His eyes narrow, but she just shakes her head, removing the drink from his hand. “Thank you.”

He retrieves his own glass, then walks past her through an arched doorway in the far wall. The McVeigh she had hired ambled along with a loping, insolent ease, taking up more space than seemed possible for an average sized man. This McVeigh moves more slowly, more painstakingly, not wincing in pain, but moving with the caution of someone who knows one wrong move could bring it all rushing back. For the first time since she’s known him, he looks his age.

She follows him through the archway and into his living room. The room is dim; the only light sources the roaring fire in a large stone hearth along on one wall, and the flickering television on another, leaving the details of the room murky and indistinct.

McVeigh eases down into a brown leather recliner, tipping it backwards with a grunt. Diane looks around at the other seating options before settling into the corner of a well-worn, overstuffed sofa. Folding her legs beneath herself, she sips her drink, studying him as he watches the television, apparently unconcerned with her presence.

The shadows cast by the fire flicker across his features, at times illuminating his tired brown eyes. On the television, two men in out-of-date suits discuss the assassination of JFK. One of them is Clint Eastwood, she thinks, though she’s never been a fan.

She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again, but the words refuse to come. She had apologized at the door, but the simple words don’t feel like enough in comparison to the enormity of what he did for her. The man had been shot. Even now she can still see his blood on her hands. He could be permanently changed by what he’s been through. He could have died.

“Diane.” His voice jolts her from her morbid thoughts, but when she focuses on him, he hasn’t even turned his head. It’s the first time he’s ever used her given name. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly. “It’s okay. It’s over. You can relax now.”

She nods and lifts her glass to her lips, tossing back her drink, and setting the glass down on the coffee table. On the television, the man who might be Eastwood talks about gunshots that sound like firecrackers. She closes her eyes. For the first time in a long time she feels safe.

* * *

The man stands, leaning on his hands over his desk as the news story streams on his laptop. “Earlier today,” the young female anchor intones with practiced gravitas, “the police released a statement officially closing the book on the Capitol Hill shooting of last week. The deceased gunman, Adam Walker has been determined to be a mentally ill individual acting alone, with no known ties to any terrorist group. Kurt McVeigh, bodyguard to Senator Diane Lockhart, who shot and killed Walker in self-defence will not face any charges. Mr. McVeigh was released from the hospital two days ago, where he underwent surgery for gunshot wounds.”

The man smiles slowly, then reaches out and slaps the laptop closed. McVeigh may be out of the hospital, but with a gunshot wound to the chest, he’ll be out of commission for quite some time to come.

She’ll be vulnerable, and she won’t be expecting a thing.

* * *

The sun is in her eyes; she must have forgotten to pull closed the blinds before she went to bed. Lifting her hand to shield her face, she finds it tangled up in some kind of string. Opening her eyes, she looks around the unfamiliar room as the previous evening comes flooding back to her. She’s on Kurt McVeigh’s couch, the sun streaming in from the uncovered upper panes of the large picture window across from her.

Looking down, she finds she’s been covered with a colourful crocheted afghan. It looks homemade, and she wonders idly if McVeigh had once had a wife, as she frees her fingers from the loosely woven yarn.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep; doesn’t remember the afghan, and can only conclude McVeigh decided at some point not to wake her. The man is no longer in the easy chair and the television set looms dark and silent in the corner. She can detect no other signs of life within the small home. A quick glance at her wrist tells her it’s shortly before 7:00 am. Moving the blanket to corner of the sofa, she swings her legs to the floor and straights her back, twisting from side to side, working out the kinks left from sleeping on the unfamiliar sofa.

Rising, she wanders back through the door to the kitchen. The bottle of whiskey is not longer on the counter, and their two glasses sit, rinsed and upside down, on the drainboard. Picking one up, she fills it with water from the sink and drinks it down.

The window above the sink looks out to the rear of McVeigh’s property. She can see a small deck overlooking a scant few yards of grass bordered by pasture and then, farther in the distance, woodland. It’s beautiful out here away from the madness of the capital. It’s a shame she so rarely has reason to come.

Setting the glass in the sink, she peers down the connecting hallway, noting a closed door at the far end that no doubt contains her inscrutable host, and off to one side, an old-fashioned, but spotless bathroom.

She avails herself of the facilities, then returns to the living room, pulling out her phone. She’s imposed long enough. She’ll call Freddy to come back and get her.

After placing the call, she retrieves a small notepad and pen from her purse, writes quickly, then tears the page from the book, leaving it on the coffee table, before going outside to sit on the porch and await her ride.

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Marissa!” Diane sets down her phone and calls to her assistant through the open office door.

She had gone straight to the office from McVeigh’s home that morning, and despite her peculiar night, or perhaps because of it, she feels better than she had in weeks. Maybe it was the country air, or the overstuffed leather sofa, or maybe it had been the company that had allowed her to finally let go of her anxiety and sleep, but whatever the case, she has yet another reason to be grateful to Kurt McVeigh.

“You rang?” Marissa says smartly, stepping into her office.

“Yes. I’ve got a caucus meeting at…” She looks down at her phone to confirm. “Two. Can you please call a car for…”

“No need for that.” A familiar voice comes from beyond the doorway, and her head flies up in time to see McVeigh’s familiar ambling walk as he crosses the threshold. “Miss Gold.” He nods brusquely to Marissa, before turning to Diane. “Senator Lockhart. I’ll escort you to your meeting.”

Diane stares, her mouth hanging open for a bit longer than is seemly. When she realizes, she snaps it shut, then immediately opens it to speak. “What are you doing here?”

The question comes out more accusatory than she intends, but he doesn’t seem offended. He takes a few more steps until he’s standing directly in front of her desk. “Reporting for duty. I believe I still owe you three days on your contract.”

Her eyebrows fly upward as an involuntary bark of laughter escapes from deep in her throat. “Good heavens!” she exclaims. “There’s no need for that. You’ve already gone above and beyond, and you just got out of the hospital! You should be home recuperating.”

“I honour my agreements, Senator,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument. “I was paid for forty-two days work, and forty-two days work is what you’ll get. No more, no less.”

There was a time she wouldn’t have noticed the gleam in his eyes and focused only on the stubborn set of his jaw, but she sees it now. He’s a man who honours his agreements, of that she has no doubt, but he’s also deliberately attempting to provoke her. And he’s enjoying it.

She grins inwardly. Well, far be it from her to deny an injured man his fun. “Marissa, will you excuse us, please?”

Marissa opens her mouth as if to throw her two cents in, then, looking from one of them to the other, snaps it shut and turns for the door. “I’ll hold your calls,” she tosses back as she pulls it closed behind her.

Diane stands up from her desk and circles around it until she’s standing directly in front of McVeigh. “You should be home in that easy chair in front of your television,” she reprimands him softly. “I saw how carefully you were moving last night. You can’t deny you’re still hurting.”

“Had a checkup yesterday,” he scoffs, dropping his gaze to the side. “Getting poked and prodded left me a little sore, but I’m fine today. I’m only offering to drive you around, not run a marathon.”

“But why?” she asks, adjusting her position slightly, trying to get back in his line of sight. “The threat is over. And don’t give me that crap about owing me three days. If we count the time you spent in the hospital because of me, you don’t owe me a single minute.”

He lifts his head and their eyes finally meet. Whatever her next words were to be evaporate from her tongue as her mouth suddenly goes dry. The pain and fatigue are still evident in the shadows under his eyes, but there’s something more there, a hard-eyed fierceness she isn’t sure how to interpret. She holds her breath as something in her chest tightens.

An instant later, the spell is broken when he shoves a hand through his hair and turns away, striding over to the window. “Lots of people down there,” he observes dispassionately.

“Yes,” she agrees, joining him at the window, after a moment’s reflective pause, Far below, warmly dressed pedestrians rush from one corner to another, to and from buildings and cars. Any one of them, she supposes, could be out to harm her. But she can’t think like that, can’t live like that, not anymore.

Glancing over at him, she finds he’s turned from the window and is looking at her. “How many of them do you think are mentally unstable? How many do you think are carrying?” he asks.

She shrugs, lips pressed together. _Too many_ is the answer, but it’s diehard Second Amendment supporters like the man in front of her that have kept her, and her like-minded colleagues from enacting new laws to keep guns out of the hands of the mentally ill. It’s a conversation they should have, that _all_ Americans need to have, but she can’t bring herself to have it tonight.

“I really am sorry,” she says instead.

He snorts, and directs his gaze back towards the window. “ _You’re_ sorry?”

Her eyebrows draw together. “Yes. You wanted me to wait for Miranda to bring the car back, but I didn’t listen, as usual, and walked us into an ambush. I’m sorry you got hurt because of my arrogance.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to face her, the fierce expression back. “Senator Lockhart you have nothing to be sorry for. You were the client, and I was supposed to be the expert. I was in charge. Make no mistake, anything you thought you were “getting away with”? I _let_ you get away with it. When so much time passed without incident, I incorrectly assessed the risk as being low, and I let my guard down.. Clearly I was wrong. I failed to protect you, my client. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“You let your guard down?” she asks, laughing incredulously. “If that was you with your guard down, I’d hate to see...Kurt you saved my life. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He shrugs and turns back to the window, clearly done with the subject now that he has said his piece. He returns to the previous subject. “You want laws to prevent guys like Adam Walker from legally acquiring weapons.” It’s not a question; her stance is hardly a secret.

“Yes,” she answers anyway.

“Then they’ll just get them illegally.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not all of them. No solution is going to be perfect, but we can’t let perfect be the enemy of good. We can't continue to wring our hands and do nothing while more people die.”

He inclines his head, perhaps conceding the point, perhaps just too tired and sore to argue. She’s more than happy to let the subject drop.

“By the way, thanks for the flowers,” he says after a moment. "They were nice."

Her cheeks flame at the memory of her inexcusable avoidance of him in the days immediately following the shooting, and the impersonal flowers she sent in her stead . “I’m sorry about that note, I wasn’t…”

His brows knit together. “The note?” he asks, as if the entire concept is foreign one to him. “I don’t think I saw any note. Just a little card with your name on it from the florist.”

A weight lifts from her shoulders as the answer comes to her. Marissa. She’ll have to thank her brilliant assistant for disobeying instructions. “Oh yes, that’s what I meant. I should have included a personal note.”

For a minute he looks like he doesn’t quite believe her, but then he shrugs, dismissing the subject. “No problem. Ready to go?” He walks over to the door to the outer office, resting his hand on the knob and looking at her expectantly.

She blinks having momentarily forgotten his insistence on finishing out the last few days of his contract.

“You have a meeting...” he prompts, dragging out the words to form a slightly amused question.

“Oh! Right!” And as she no longer has any time to argue with him, she gathers her belongings, and follows him out the door.


End file.
